The Source

After I am dead
they will cut me open,
find a stone next to my heart.

Source of my power.

The Hebrew form of your name.

Sigh

Deep sigh of fog at the windows,

your eyes invariably tell the truth

prisms throwing whys

full spectrum

in every direction

Haiku

Matryoshka girl I watch your secrets unmask shell by shell by shell

Who?

The owl’s eternal question
without any hope of an answer
echos in the rain-worn stone
that holds your faded name.

Again

Praying

quietly

in the rain

with a congregation
of headstones

that I will
see you

again

Flightless Words

Shorn feathers
bled of ink
wind-torn
pages
where
our hearts
once soared
with sacred vows.

Ghost

Love is the music of starlight

calling us into the dance

a beauty that haunts each movement

a ghost that rattles our helical chains.