I heard geese late last night
off in the distance beyond the reservoir
as I sat in my decrepit shed
where I view the world and all its lineaments.

I envisioned their v trail in a silhouette against a salmon dawn
An arrow soaring to exotic lands somewhere far, far south
though the hour of morn was hours away.

Then later when my pillow welcomed me to rest beside the sleeping warmth of my love
I thought of them and their journey hoping i would travel with them in my dreams,
but I did not

If I could
I'd take your smile
put it away until times weren't kind
I'd add it to the wink you left behind
That would carry me through most anything.

If I could
I'd preserve your kiss
Keep it safe until times of loneliness
Reminds me distance keeps you from me
I'd open the lid and let the touch
Carry me to you

A mandolin hangs on the wall
sunburst and walnut hinting through dust
unstrung to prevent warping
unstrummed for so long without song.

A temporary perch at first
then time stole its heart lonely without touch
now she gives it the slightest look, dispelling texture and notes
once ment so much.

Though her fingers flicker memories twitch of warm body beneath fretted strings and the race of such
along a neck smooth enough to kiss.

What caused the separation,
the disengagement,
the lack of intimacy?
A musician's instrument
tender as a lover.
Did they fall out of love with one another,
and if so
why hang the reminder above an evening's flaming hearth?

Butterscotch bruises are those water stains on a white ceiling.
Fighting the bleach at every dab and swab.
Days pass since the cause was fixed, but still they mar and taunt.
A few more days, then try again, then paint over regardless.  
Another of life's little irritants,
little annoyances grinding away.
Then there's the ants, don't get me started,
the temperamental heater, the obnoxious neighbour, the bills, the muscle spasm that never fully goes, the arguments, the hang nail, the rudeness of strangers, the frozen screen, the word slip, the stupid what's app messages,
the struggle to write a verse.
The list goes on and on and will long after we're gone.

Dew beads on web tendrils
too soft to stir the spider
too unobtrusive to cause grass tips bother
Early dew
soft and silent
like tears hidden from a sleeping lover.
An exhale of morning's breath
in condensation
its swell captured
Droplets form
in the midst of dawn's sorrow
for the departed night

She wears a ring on a chain
around her neck,
never hides it away
or acknowledges it.
A plain silver ring
aged and smoothed by time
though the chains have changed
once in a while.
Sometimes when she reads
or when deep thoughts distract
her fingertips gently caress.
It's her's, this ring she does posses
and of it's secret
I'll often wonder,
but always respect.
In all of these years
I've never asked.
I think a part of her
is grateful for that