Where thoughts become trees

My longing is of a soft dawn
Rubbing its possibilities in my face
And brightening my countenance
With pale yellow light,
Until I reach that place where thoughts
Become trees reaching
For their potential.

This is the heart of melancholy

A tender seasonal gust of leaves
Scoops my dreams up
And rush them through the ajar window.
A fine-toothed comb
Brushes through my knotted thoughts.
It is as though the morning is left
Sitting, half asleep, out there
On one of the distant isles with nothing
But a lighthouse to keep it
From leaning back into the darkness
Of the pre-autumnal night.
This is the heart of melancholy;
A wistful longing, a vague memory of safe harbor,
Scraped away by the rawness of beautiful sunny days.
A dream with one leg rooted in summer pasture
And one leg winged by the mystery of night.

We sleep under the same black sky

Tonight, the rivers
Have frozen over
And bright summer days
Can’t even seem to bring us
Back together.
We sleep under the same
Black sky, but the stars
Seem to create different patterns
In our lives. Perhaps it is time
To let our memories draw
Shadows in the snow and simply wait
For the sun to rise.

The Dream of tomorrow

Of all the gifts of grace
Nothing is as precious as longing.
We see it in the meeting
of sky and hoarfrost:
A white-haired aerial world
Fighting the elaborate rules of time.
Or in the quiet of the night sea
Without a single light to reflect.
We see it in the singing hazels
Bleeding into sleeping clouds,
And in the waning sun’s burgundy
Burning the past in its hand.
But most of all we see it in people,
Walking side by side,
Young and growing, old and leaning,
Always haloed by the dream of tomorrow.