Like the Falling Snow

One November night

I drove up the steep slope

of the 4th of July Pass;

plowed through sheets of fresh snow,

all starry white, glazed with sparkling frost,

headed towards Coeur D’Alene,

towards home.

 

You were lying next to me,

your breath rising and falling in my ears,

fogging the windshield,

your body slack with sleep.

 

I sank into the heated leather seat of my Jetta,

blared the defroster,

listened to Habib Koite softly crooning,

as my heart stretched

over all of I 90,

expansive and wide and wild as Montana,

clenching and breaking with too much love for you,

knowing that soon

you would leave.

 

Yet that moment was silent

and serene

like the falling snow.

Sunset

glorious-sky-at-sunset-226511

I watched through the frame of my bedroom window

as flaming streaks of pink and peach glittered on the horizon,

then receded

as dusk fell,

leaving thick brushstrokes of blue grey clouds

to fade

into the blur of night.

 

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I watched,

the result of inevitable mourning

that my heart should not indulge.

 

But I am unapologetically alive

and love to vent

my real feelings

sometimes.

 

You always tasted like bitter herbs, sharp and arresting on the tongue.

A shock like plunging into a cold bath on a warm day.

I grew to crave the bitterness,

the rough contrast.

 

You entered my veins like a poison

and changed the pattern

of my blood.

You became a sickness,

that knew no cure.

I was bedridden, addicted, pathological,

helplessly stricken with

love’s curse.

 

Tonight I cry myself to sleep,

a soothing gesture.

In my dreams I know I will see your embattled visages

and their complexly interwoven threads,

turning like a kaleidoscope

through the various stages of my inner landscape,

tumbling, moving, shifting,

like shells do

at the bottom of the ocean.

 

Then morning will come

and paint the sky again.