Waves in handmade glass
in old peeling wooden panes —
Ripples on the pond.

Was it a bid adieu, or merely the beginning of an infinite rendezvous? A quiet vow, sealed in silence, to wander back into the refuge of dreams where our moments linger—beneath the timeless tree that sheltered our whispers, on those solitary benches, along endless paths where our footsteps etched fleeting eternity, as if echoing our own unfinished story. To trace the delicate decay of fallen roses, decipher the faded whispers of “miss-you” notes, and relive the quiet intimacy of entwined hands. To seek the warmth of embraces and rediscover the timeless rhythm of those coffee-laden moments, where losing ourselves in one another was the only truth we ever needed.

A giggle like yours can chime for hours in my head, though I'll cherish them instead—for the hours I decide to lie in bed.

I know time will pass, yet I lay in my bed with an aching heart.
While the time arrives—the warm days too will soon die.

I'll wait for you knowing this, hoping you'll give me another laugh.
The days turn colder without the warmth of your embrace—to continue on with lonelier days.

In a time where I'd considered you as my best—I'd been humbled to remember I'm simply one of many.

A multiple-choice question in a test,
A weakened bird among many in a nest,
The person you've left on his heart unread.

Though, for my passing, time will never change.
I could only wish for my warm days instead.

Spent silverfish, massed on black
whippets at        the end of the track
cracked nut shells, lying
inflated balloons, dying.

Steel mosquitos that    tattoo poppies
shot up cartridges by    the school gate
in new mown grass    that stinks      the street.

The plaster peels around the windowpane
as Virginia creeper clings, hangs low
on the old stone wall that crumbles, veined
by the cracks from the hourglass’s flow.
The weathered wood of her rafters frame
this battered house that’s fading away
like the troubles and cares she’d contained
which are silting fast into the sandy soil.
The creeper‘s five leaves grasp like a hand:
Gaia hugs this house in her tightening embrace
to fully devour all the follies of man
until only the quiet creeper remains.

The one flower
Outside the window
Has turned to dust.

The village church was built to last.
It would stand until Judgement Day.
Its oak rafters would hold the roof fast
above the faithful who there prayed.

The grey stone is carved with inscriptions
of verses of scripture from Father God
who would grant the faithful benedictions
as they knelt on stone flagstones in awe.

The faithful had built for generations
and for generations still to exalt:
A gold, stone, and mortar salvation
rising up to a heavenward vault.

The stone walls were decorated, gilded,
lined with the lives of the saints
whose blessings had once gently lilted
out of the colorful daubs of paint.

The saints’ faces long faded away
and the statues have hair of green moss
while a few arches still try to stay
up like stone ribs of a body now lost.

The vault now lies open and broken
with a clear view to the old God above
and its grassy shell is now a mere token
of this cathedral built to love.

The broken flagstones are now a green mat
and the nave is barren. Its grey pall
belies the colors in abundance it once had.
There’s no more shine of gold at all.

Yet the grass that grows there is still blessed
by the faithful in ground hallowed below.
I’m touched by their hushed songs still sung, caressed
by soft breath of holy wind which there flows.