Poetic

Before I knew you, I wrote love
I wrote of adoration and infatuation
Poems about passion, or lack thereof
for I had yet to feel the sensation.

I realize now that all my poems
when written in a loving pen
No matter what the words or whims
Are prayers for you without amen.

And as all poems have their ends
Poetry's endings are prophetic
And as each prior poem portends
My love for you is poetic.

Perfect

We joke about our first date
being at McDonald's and sharing fries.
We watched movies in my dorm room
and talked until half past four.
That was the first I saw your eyes,
Blue and green like a coral reef from above.

We laugh about our first kiss,
how I teased you until you smiled
our eyeglasses clicked awkwardly
We took them off and felt our way.
That was the first my fingers felt your hair,
Dark, sandy blond though you still call it brown.

We now smile when we speak love.
The first time I was so shy to say.
We tried to make a word for in between
What not yet love but just almost.
That was the first time I fell in love
Real and awkward and utterly perfect.

Buttons

I collect buttons
when I see them on the ground
separated from their worn out purses
and haggard old winter coats.
Seeing them resting lonely on the sidewalk,
hard, cold, dirty and bare,
conjures images of dangling threads,
fraying edges, burning holes and broken connections.
What was once well loved fades to loose-ends
and their broken pieces litter my path.
What once held everything together
drop hopelessly for me to find,
to cup safely in my hands.
Now that it has come undone
I collect buttons
because each reminds me
that something else,
somewhere,
is falling apart.

Memento Mori

In the gully along the trail
Deer bones lay scattered, forgotten toys.
Picked clean of meat and worm devoured,
Set a snowy white in the sweltering June.

Deep inside the sun bleached skull,
The empty arroyo of the eyes
Examines the same small bit of ground
But all it sees is endless dirt.

Foliage hugs the skeleton close
Gripping the shards of deer remains
Grinds the bones into a fine dust
And to each their separate end:

The pulling of body back into earth
I, too, can feel it in my bones.