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Memories are mysteries,
gray ink on yellow sheets, deciphered
dreams, the bloom of childhood cast
as the main character, full of tears
that long for the feel of a loving hand.

An invisible wind drives the hard rain
against my pliant skin to speak
of where it has been, what wisdom
it has gathered, what ears have listened,
what tears, what tears, what tears.

The castle walls have shadows,
the builder lives within, the rain beats
against the stone, the child does not
understand why the shadows stay,
why the builder hides inside.

Memories are mysteries,
like the ragged edge of day,
fragments of my years,
castle stones and shadows full of tears,
full of tears, full of tears.


Open Window

I can't see the crow, but I know
he's there. He's always there
on his wing or with his bony claw
wrapped around a branch.

Why do I think he calls for me?
He's just another bird whose voice
remains the same, always calling
"I am a crow and I know it."

I feel the mystery
of the brittle morning,
the black wing that tilts
the earth below, the clutching
fingers that scar a tender branch,
the call that says I am.



Published in"Open Window Anthology IV"
- Aug. 2005