Warm Welcome (Revisited)

White and warm are the walls of this house

Where you are not invited.

I sweep my floors and dry each dish

With a caress you’ll never know.

I sleep spread out on a queenly bed,

Composing dreams you can’t disturb.

And when you knock— how will you knock?

          With three or four or five?

But when you do, we’ll sit outside—

With you on your side, and me on mine—

And when you’re done you’ll leave.

I’ll go inside and wash your mug

And put it in its place.

This house is mine and white and warm,

A priceless real estate.

Old Yet New

The Moon is a messenger:

Lean into me, She says,
And I will whisper low to you
The secret of the Sun!

My shine is not my own.
In me, you have seen the Sun
And known Him not.
In me, you may see the Sun
Even after He has set.

Open wide, and this ever-molten silver
I will pour out
And spill into you
And make your sorrow a priceless thing!

Middles

80 percent anticipation and nostalgia,

We’re caught up between the romances of

What was and

What might be.

A rising bridal veil, a scrapbook by a coffin;

The eager birth of expectation

And birthdays thereafter to reminisce.

Summertime is thirsty for hot chocolate,

Cozy sweaters and winter squash;

Winter curses broken water heaters

And longs for popsicles and playgrounds.

Mushed in the middle are

Broken-in shoes,
Sighs,

Bear hugs

And moms.

A hushed suspension,

Then I’m crumpling my paper plans

And breathing air.

At the Well

Avert thine oil-painting eyes,
Lower thy tapestretic voice.
Contain the casual mane and
     oh, for the last time
Be still! fluttering fingers;
Mute the shimmer up and down
The wiry neck.

They might then no longer follow
With wide eyes...
Cooing, adoring, anxious pigeons
Fattened on platony.

Then might my used-up-crayon eyes
And finger-painted song
And polite hair
And stubby sweaty fingers
Become adorable in thy Child heart:
     A heart that could teach me to play.

This game is a spelling bee--
I misspell "Truth"
So I can sit down early.

The Pearl

The knife-- sturdy, strong, old yet gleaming

Plunges into each oyster.

Pried open, no ears can hear no screaming.

Frustration rising with the sun,

He cast them one by one

Into the waves of the faceless bay.

Does it matter what he finds?

The filled and empty lay side by side

In the deep, broken and dead.