across my face.

I saw spring coming
in the meadow
where the wildflowers
whisper to the wind.

found freedom on a snowcapped mountain top,

smiled to the child offering violets
cradled in her tiny hands

and when she smiles to me

her joy ripples like sunlight
across the sea of love.

the curtain is lifted.

the soul becomes visible

(always in the wild places
in my heart.)

I stood again where my breath vanished
on the edge of speaking
the air too still to carry even grief.
Around me, the world held its posture,
like it too awaited a reply
that would not come.

No flame descended, no tremor rose,
only the pressure of unbroken silence
folding itself around the questions
I hadn’t yet learned to stop asking.

Somewhere above, thought gathered
in a form I dared not name.
Not presence. Not absence.
But something in between,
watching itself through me.

I opened my mouth,
but what escaped me was not prayer, nor song
only the echo of unspent meaning,
a voice shaped more by question
than knowledge.

There are rooms in the soul
where even memory is forbidden.
In those, I build altars of fallen breath,
stacking each exhale like stone
to bear the weight of waiting.

If this is faith,
it does not comfort.
It requires no belief.
Only that I return each day
and listen for what I know isn't there.

Still, I do.
Not because I expect the silence to break,
but because I am part of its shape now
a line in its unwritten sentence,
the soft space between words
curled at the edge of speech.

beneath the cindering sky
a storm surge pummels

and plumes
onto broken grey stones

waves
in black rages

rip away the skin
of the day

you are shattered
and dragged further

and further from the strand
on a distance cliff

the lighthouse pitches flicks
and is finally lost

black chemical blood
sludges your veins

slowing your heart
fear feeds loneliness

ocean whole
you are swallowed

and sinking the darker down
breathe in the cold silence

peace
peace  
peace
  
be with you

tip toes to an imaginary line
drawn in the sand,
speaks in shadows,

tenderness, raw and sharp.

raised by wolves
she chews to the bone.

kiss the wind
my love is gone.

Plum ripe from windowpane
Meets enamel

Two drops
Blood-red juice

New shirt
Baptized

What if the question
is older than the answer?
What if time forgets
why it moves,
and the stars
no longer know their names?
What if we speak,
but it is the silence between words
that holds the weight.
The road bends
not to mislead,
but to remind us:
truth is never linear.
A seed does not know
it is a tree.
The stone does not dream
of flight
yet both contain the sky.
I do not search
for meaning,
only the place
where meaning once slept.