The Body Knows Not What the Earth Knows

The body knows not what the earth knows:

the way it becomes pliant with rain, soft 

as mud underfoot in spring,

or loose as a wind-dance 

in summer.

Neither melting snow or rushing water

is the way of the body.

I am none of these things.

My earth is made of tendons and sinew,

blood, bone

and the lung traps --

where the breath catches itself in braces. 

Each morning 

I wake before dawn, 

muscles of rock resisting

the goodness of sleep, of a bed,

of more dreams.

So with no other choice,

I rise

and I write,

glad for the upright chair made of wood.

Existing Inside a Poem

Sometimes you don't need to write them:

the words that paint the pictures,

or the words that sing the songs 

Sometimes it's enough,

just to be alone.

Let the cello and the view and the words write their poem.

Words And Waiting

The days are long, and

The living room 

Is dappled in sun, where

The music plays more often,

We

Watch each other from windows,

And from porches

I

Pass the time waiting 

For words,

Like worms

A bird left alone in her nest.

Cello in the Rain

Under a dark sky, never have I

written in such a mood as this.

A dismal abyss, a selfishness,

with cello in my ears.

In Dark Times

To make meaning of it,

To find purpose,

To know it hasn't been in vain, 

I write pages upon pages and why? And for what?

To live a life more inspired or less...

To fill empty churches with my song

And then to find it 

Echoed 

--gone?