writing: each letter a peak hole
for my subconscious to pour her shadow through;
a tiny window for unknown to pour through.

clouds —
whispers in a night sky;
passing over lovers in a Colorado meadow.
nothing free from memory

birdsong is a nest
for morning hearts to curl up in–
i wonder what silence is.

optimism stings; is a cruel wind.
and hope — a thick-barred prison.

hope: has to dig its floating root
into something fertile–
into earth’s lonely lap.
hope– not with future in mind.
not optimistic. not to make it better.
with. be with. open with.