Sandcastles:

and yet

all

my best laid plans

amount

to nothing more

than castles

in the sand

[Untitled]:

I have always

Preferred

To let

People

Connect

Their own...

Builders:

we, the builders

of boxes

for living

for sleeping

for working

for dying

for the past

for the present

for the future

for ourselves

for our friends

for strangers

for odds and ends

we, the builders

of boxes

placers of things

organizers of objects

children of the builder

of builders 

of the world

of the cosmos

of the infinite

the giver

and granter 

of dreams

we, the builders

of boxes

were born 

to stand on mountains

to see ourselves

in the stars

to create

worlds without end

Red Lights:

our lives

are wasted

always 

rushing

to red lights

Bolts:

I think

I could have

swept you 

off your feet

if they 

weren’t

bolted to the floor

and

you’re still 

standing

there

wrench

in hand

fingers

fidgeting

nervously

as though

you still

haven’t

yet decided

whether

to tighten

or loosen

the bolts

Gold:

we wound 

our way 

through 

the midwestern 

woods

sunlight

filtering through

the autumn leaves

golden rays

dancing

among

the branches

the late 

afternoon 

light

playfully 

chasing 

the forest’s

ever moving

shadow

a blanket 

of fallen leaves

keeping

the ground

warm

guarding

it from

the chill

in the

October air

all while

our conversation

wandered

like the trails

and the creek bed

and the wind

wistfully

winding

through the trees

as they moved

politely

out of its way

their leaves

bowing courteously

as it passed by

until we found 

our way

back to our

separate cars

waiting

to take us

down separate roads

to our separate

homes

away from the woods

and their golden

afternoon light

now

I know

that nothing

gold can stay

but gold

is just one color

I would wander

with you 

through 

well lit woods

or

rain soaked 

streets

in the dead of night

or 

the worst 

of winter 

whiteouts

the worth

of the brightest

moments

measured

by the weight

of meaning

imbued in

those

of sorrow

and frustration

and disappointment

the memories

of light

and rain

and snow

entwined

in each minute

we spend together

binding our separate lives

like

the separate 

roads

leading

to our separate

homes 

that always 

meet

somewhere

in the middle

Shapes in the Clouds:

all this time

I’ve been 

afraid

that I was wrong

that you

were just

a change

in the wind

that we

were just

shapes

in the clouds