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

Tangled:

somehow

you got tangled up

a line

disoriented

askew

looped around

itself

you let someone

pull some strings

you even tugged at a few

now 

your tangle

is all tied up

knots

pulled tight

throughout

and you will likely

never know

for sure

who's hands

are most at fault

a mess of threads

stuffed inside

your heart

out of sight

but never

out of mind

distracted

guarded

and

a bit ashamed

afraid you've

just about

run out of time

your hands

your perfect hands

tracing strands

and picking

at knots

trying to undo 

the damage

racing against

a silent

clock

but that thread

that perfect thread

bunched

tied

knotted

and disheveled

shines bright as day

in the most pleasant hue

its color all that ever

mattered

In the Midwest Twilight:

in between these hills

that stretch out

like a sea

of dirt and leaves

in the valleys

and creek bottoms

in the twilight

nestled neatly

among these trees

there is a magic

lighting

lightning bugs

so they

can speak

in Morse code

to the stars

carrying

the crickets'

serenade

to the moon

ushering

rabbits

safely

from shadow

to shadow

as foxes watch

calmly in the distance

while I

pass by

in the dusk

in the woods

between these hills

outside my front door

Reverse Memories:

when I think of you

I see Thanksgiving dinners

with your family

surrounded by

more food then we

could ever hope to eat

Christmas mornings 

and afternoons

spent leisurely

enjoying the colors

of decorations

and used wrapping paper

torn, wadded 

scattered across

the living room floor

the smells of potpourri

candles

breakfast

and dinner

blending together

with lights lit

for one last time

before they're put away

disgraced

after a week of disuse

Halloween movies in the dark

sitting next to each other

laughing

because it's better than admitting

that we still find children's Halloween movies

unsettling

as we sit a little closer

waiting for the next round of

trick-or-treaters to come to the door

so we can admire their

aspirations, manifested

in costume

on this, the night when they

can become anything

rewarding their

ingenuity

with

compliments and candy

your smile

beaming

as you sit in the pews

wearing your Easter dress

looking forward to the impending

warmth of summer

and to a more immediate

Easter dinner

us 

on Presidents Day

trying to decide
how to spend
our

Presidents Day

Fourth of Julys

Memorial Days

New Years

when I think of you

I see us

together

for all the times

when people choose

people most carefully

together

on holidays

in all of these

memories
in reverse

Bound:

tying these 

feelings to words

is 

the only way I know

to make them 

real

to make them 

tangible

to make them

last

Tim and the Rain on the Glass:

Tim watches the rain
slowly gathering
on the glass

rivers
waterfalls
errant splotches

pooling
gradually

then ebbing
in their own
particularly
way

before another
flood breaks
across the window pane

the lights of passing cars
racing across the fractured sea
scattering copies of themselves
caught for this moment
in a kaleidoscope of tears

muted colors filling the spaces
with a palette of grays and greens

Tim is mesmerized

as he tries
to capture
the vignette

to grasp the way
the lights
and colors
are transformed
by the
rain

Tim breathes in slowly

listening to the drops
hit the glass

delicately drumming
hypnotic
doldrums

sight and sound
flowing
through time

until
Tim decides
to go watch TV

Confounded:

we are isses
thinging

waves
mattering

light
lightly
lighting

all confounded in time

This:

this
will be
short and
to the
point

Tim and the Hole:

Tim sits in the dirt
having abandoned
all sense of propriety

the slightest layer
of dust
coating his jeans
his hands
and his arms
up to his elbows

a ring of dirt
fully absorbed
into the ankles
of his now
less than white
socks

stick in hand
Tim digs deeper

this hole
is the one

it will be the biggest hole
Tim has ever dug

loosening earth
with his crude
wooden
implement
curated
from nature
to help him
conquer
nature

scooping the loose dirt
from the hole with his
bare hands

the pile of extracted soil
wholly insufficient to
fill the void caused by
Tim's ambition

he works as quickly as possible
knowing that the recess bell
will soon ring

Tim knows
that this hole
will be the one

his finest accomplishment

the recess bell rings

Tim assesses his work
as he tries
and fails
to brush the dust
from his pants
and hands
and arms

the hole is just as big
as any hole
that Tim has ever dug

Weeds:

these weeds
were never mistaken
for wheat

no tares as far
as the needle's
eye can see

torn
from the earth

then piled
and burned

forsaken
forgotten
forlorn

these weeds
no longer
a part of me

The Moon:

the golden moon
floating on a sea
of blackest ink

its gentle light
touching nothing
reaching nowhere

glowing all the same

Tim and the Summer Night:

Tim lies on his back

the cool grass

holding him gently

above the cooler

ground

dusk has come

and gone

the night

and it's timid

obscurity

descending

gradually 

in its wake

"timid" because

amid the darkness'

veil

distant lights

of heaven

and Tim's home

(set off

towards the horizon)

hold the full strength

of the night

at bay

as Tim's

day

fades

he is wrapped

in the mixture

of the cool

summer's night

air

the calm

left behind

when the sun

hurried

past the horizon

to attend to

someone else's

tomorrow

and the quiet

of light

shining

unobtrusively

humbly

in the distance

Tim sighs

knowing

it's almost

his bedtime

knowing

the sun will rise

in the morning

knowing

summer

will always

end

Steadfast:

I stood still

so sure that time

was on my side

my justification 

my deliverer

so sure that we

would have time

to do more

than just live

in close proximity 

I was so confident

that we were spiraling

ever closer

carried on an

autumn's breeze

I recall your hesitation 

defiant brilliance

steady perseverance 

a distant specter

of youth

I recall my patient muster

cool demeanor 

and well laid plans

all dashed violently

against the rocks

off some forgotten island

while I sailed 

gallantly across the sea

who was I?

that brave explorer

that humble conqueror

of all the greatest aspirations 

my naivety could imagine

who was I?

filled exactly to the brim

with equal parts

wonder and satisfaction 

content to yearn 

while standing still

I could hear the words

between the words

you'd speak

the spaces fully occupied 

with intentions so fierce

they would take

even the most innocuous 

of your phrases captive

holding your subtlest

glance for ransom

yet you always

seemed to embrace 

your unintended

transparency 

who were we?

so sure

that our futures

would stand together 

you gently pressing closer

while I stood fast

who were we?

trusting our lives

to an ill conceived 

sense of fate

now as time

has hurried onward

we have changed

ourselves

no longer meant

to stand together 

for we were set afloat

on different currents

I, destined to wander

searching patiently

for things I always

had

you, firmly taking hold

of what was in your grasp

someone more

tangible than I have

ever been

who were you?

to see something 

of importance in me

when I had so little

of myself to give

who were you?

to see happiness 

within your reach

and clutch it

without flinching 

without reluctance

without doubt

what I would give

to see the faintest glimmer

of the hope that you once

shared with me

flicker in another's eye

as she gazes

in my general direction 

what I would give 

to clutch

to grasp

to hold on to

someone who is

in my arms reach

someone

who will stand with me

someone

set on my own current 

but

yet, I stand still