3: A short poem of winter

winding through the landscape
in circuitous paths, they come
now in long coats, now with umbrellas
the children of this city delight in
each hour spent in the wind and
rainy puddle-stomping weather

Well...I did when I was very small...

4: A long(er) poem of spring.

The signs are there, if you know
green shadows on the trees
promising leaves--pale flowers
in the ornamental plums,
washing the street in a blush
of pink frothy petals
But the lilacs are still silent,
waiting for the sun to set them blooming
February hangs low on the horizon,
pallid moon of the year setting in the west

hmmm....my mind has jumped the tracks. Time for something different......

for you. you know.

moonlight seeps in under the shades, and she opens her eyes. there is a moment in which she thinks that she is alone, but the breathing of the one next to her dispells that theory like a charm set to keep out illusions. the light settles on the floor, chasing the darkness away from paintbrushes and canvas and a lone discarded book. she wishes it could chase out her feelings, her frailties, as easily, but hope never rises further than her stomach. she is too aware of her place in things for that sort of self-delusion. she rises, going to the window, praying that he will not wake.

just a moment to myself, and then i'll be all right...

she knows the tired sayings:
things will look brighter in the morning;
things always seem darkest before dawn;
the sun will come out tomorrow
--but they seem to have no relevance to her. this life is like an unending series of rainy days and wind-blown tragic midnights. the things that came before mean nothing.

she raises the shade, just an inch, no more, and allows the moonlight to touch her bare skin. it feels cool, like his fingers, like his hands on her shoulders---