I’ve Heard the Echoes


I’ve heard the echoes,
chased the shadows,
danced with the reveries
of phantom caresses.

Retreat with me
to a safe space
‘neath the snow-laden burrows
behind the curtain of remembrances

where we will carve out
the annals
of innocence and mirth,
and ascend the smoky hills by night’s end.

Art: “The Road in front of Saint-Siméon Farm in Winter”
Claude Monet


From this vantage…


From this vantage
We have quelled our devils,
Torn our veils,
And dozed off in the effulgence of Being.

For a time our hopes were recycled,
Our superstitions dashed,
Our reach for life extended into
Flashes of distilled desperation

For a gentle upsurge that drifts and transforms,
That subsides and appears again
Ever-more slight, ever-more humble,
Dallying effortlessly with rambling thoughts along the embankment.

Art: “Argenteuil Seen from the Small Arm of the Seine”
Claude Monet

Space, Time, Distance


Our lines were drawn by buried affections
Gilded by quivering skins
That knew estrangement,
But that soon would find oneness

On a path illumined only by
Light that space had abandoned.
Repose had ceased to placate the weary
Even when the journey seemed unbroken

And the hours fell back upon their slopes.
We will refuse to sigh until
The dusk of negation is suspended,
Until I can feel all your promises

Slithering in my thickened hand,
Restless as the leaves aflutter,
Witness to moments that danced until prostration
Even while the stars began to wonder in our direction.

Art: “Neige au soleil couchant”
Claude Monet



The impression of your hand in mine
Lingers in a pool of usurped moments
As I cast my shadow down the hill
Where I coveted your face
With searching lips
For the first and last time.
The centuries will hear my beseech
And expand as tunnels inundated with the
Dust of the beloved and the fallen.
The ferns will outgrow their bodies
And begin to sashay nimbly above the
Moon-glazed swards that birthed them.

The tortoise will remember to smile again,
And his legs will gain strength
As his journey decompresses
And his resting place arises in a gale of
Furious, breathy arias
Abiding their impending freedom.
Should the seas open up for your arrival
And your star begins to weep,
Do not wait for me,
For timeless I have become.
We have loved as the tiller’s dream
Loved the hillside,
As the edifice now loves its song.

You might find me buried deep in the trough
With mirrors on all sides.
Do not seek my likeness,
For I am all of them
And probably none of them.
Fear nothing as you close your eyes
And slowly restrain your breath.
Do not awaken until infinity has
Called you to behold two smiling trees in the fore.
Open your eyes,
Go lie among them,
Eyes facing the sea,
And breathe again,
Just a little at a time.

Art: “The Church at Varengeville, against the Sunset”
Claude Monet

Where We Are Going…


Where we are going,
Enigmas await
With hands extended
Bearing ripe stones,
Expressionless cabochon
Droplets of stilted rain,
Or a petty curse from
The fountains below.
Beyond this threshold
You are masked,
Surrounded by ever-advancing
Entrails of an abandoned Spring.
Without movement
You’ve become an efflorescent statue
Mocking time and
Pilfering its colors
Until the last one is drawn
Patiently and elegantly devoured,
Just in time for the advent
Of the weakened penumbra
You freed years ago one morning
Blanketless now in the cool of dusk,
Naked, with trembling feet
Smiling tentatively.

Art: “Garden Path at Giverny”
Claude Monet

Piece by Piece…


Piece by piece
Our journey realigned itself
In concert with
Sprightly reassurances
From across a budding millpond,

Enjoining us to sing
When there is no breath,
To kiss with lips gilded by
The dew of daysprings past,
To love beyond the last heartbeat.

Moment by moment
Our paths would sound
The hollow depths of beginnings
Reborn with the scent of meadow’s musk

And take rest together
Where the pebbles begin to glisten
One face-down, the other face-up,
Without a blink,
Until the firmament beckons the stone
And the stone smiles in return.

Art: “The Tuileries”
Claude Monet


That Morning…


That morning,
Not a ripple remained among us
That did not encompass some thought
About yesterday.

We endeavor to keep them all,
And feast with them,
Inspecting them for clarity
Of hindsight and reflection.

They have kissed the breeze
Of their own accord,
And have delighted in their secrets,
In concert with vague movements.

They tell us nothing,
But show us what it means
To be the salvation
That awaits them
With a half-smile

One night
Years ago.

Art: Claude Monet
“Riverbank at Argenteuil”