Cold

The cold is quiet;

any fluid movement

that warm allows

pulls tight to crystal

settling deftly

on windshields

and edges of lawn

to frame sidewalks.

For this moment,

on first breath,

I can hear everything

and nothing at all;

I am still.

Moon Flower

Her bloom does not

stretch to touch the sun -

her trumpet petals

open to midnight sky -

call of island coqui;

in life, she lived

in shadows of convention

behind pots of beans

and flowered oilcloths

dulled by soap and scrub.

Equatorial days split

between dark - perhaps,

forgotten ambition;

and light - likely,

routine crumbs house kept;

at night, salsa beats

away from the kitchen;

the moon flower watches

orchids run up palm trees -

dancing with the dark -

her spirit rises from day’s dust.

Lake Michigan in February
Shot with IPhone 6Plus

Widow's Weeds

Crepe is draped

across the canopy

of the bedposts as

I lie in repose.

Heavy skirts sweep

the wooden floors

picking up dust-

unsettling past.

I lock my hair

in an ornament,

yours too fine

to scissor cut.

Jet courses through

veins vacant

of life lived before

you came

and went.