I hate that I miss you.
No-- I don't hate it;
It just seems trivial.

I missed you this summer,
then you came back.
Now you're gone again,
and I'm anxious for you
to come home.

I say "home"
as if we built it together
but in a way, it's true
None of this would be the same without you.

I'll never claim to own you;
You are free. Be so.
I only know
there's an echo of longing
for you to return.

I didn't plan to miss you,
yet here we are.
Just know that when you return,
in the moment allotted,
I'll cling to you
and cry out with my embrace
how I wish you wouldn't go
again.

You can't hear a footprint.
A mossy indentation in the earth
leaves no sound
yet you know something passed by

You can't hear a footprint
yet I see them all around
I can't grasp the entirety of You through the sole
but Your enormity is evident

You can't hear a footprint
yet I hear the leaves crunch
as legions of squirrels run for cover
The trees rustling
with every whispered breeze
The screech of robins-
two, three, four-
squared off with every other creature
battling for dominion

You can't hear a footprint
but I'll follow the ones I can find
in hopes of reaching You
wherever You've led me
I can't hold Your hand
yet I take comfort in letting my foot
fall where Yours once tread

You can't hear a footprint
but maybe I'll hear You
someday.

It wasn't the most delicious nap,
but the afterglow is delectable.

Rested eyes still see the world softly,
not quite tired
(not quite tired)
but barely stirring.

The wind in my breast
echoes a familiar sigh
at the caress of the afternoon breeze
Not quite sunny
(not quite sunny)
but the thunder seems hesitant.

Lay awake.
See all through sepia and softness.
Revel in the care,
the air.

And tonight,
rest easy.

I found a poem
it was packed away
in a box in an attic is where it lay
dormant in the dark
unable to say
the words he had written
his final day

the attic has light now
he heard the switch click
come to me come to me
hurry! be quick
I've waited for years
for ions to be read
then the sound of turning pages
danced in his head

he awaited the light when he heard paper turning
and the smile of a face would have his heart burning
closer and closer as the pages were freed
then stopped at the title and did not proceed
did not proceed but the eyes he could see
through the thin journal paper the eyes he could see
and the tears ran down cheeks of a child all but 3
Daddy, he said, 'Can you read this for me?'
'Perhaps you can read it some other day
when you're old enough to know just what it might say
Off now my child, we can't be all night
lay down the book and turn off the light

and from that day forward he waited for me
the child to return
to set the words free

I apologize in advance,
For none of my love songs will have melodies.

I will laugh in euphony and cry in cacophany, I will bleed with every typo and breathe with every verse. I will think in metaphors and speak in rhyme.

I will tell you I love you
Not by using those three words
But by writing my own; pages at a time.

I will compare your eyes to lighthouses in the mist
And your laughter to a lark's opera.
You won't just hear me say "you're beautiful" (though you are), but go on for chapters about every little freckle.

You won't understand why I think so dramatically. Or why I take so long to choose my words (because I always know I can find better ones). You will become angry when I sit down and write because I just can't say what I want to with my voice.

But, most of all, I apologize for the way your face will fall when you read my poems and discover who I am. You will awe at how I can hide so much in those little notebooks. You will hear stories about me that will never escape my lips. You will tremble at the exhausted self that remains after I pour all that I am into the pen strokes on the paper.

For these things, I am sorry.
So please excuse me for being a poet.
And please excuse yourself for loving one.

- p. winter