promises

red tea
window stain
disarray
regret
last nights’
warmth
for this
shallow breathing
like steam
rises
from blood
escapes the
red confines
of this room
fog congeals
on night’s
winter panes
etched
a new face
closer to home
that promises
space
always behind
what lies
before you
the quickening
breath
heartbeat footsteps
crescent light
long shadows
a tree passes
the porch light
ignored
still shines
the old lady
inside
thought best
and withdrew
from the scene
as lighthouse
promises
morning rain.

Fog

reaching

tortured sky

collapses

moments frozen

in prose

a fisherman

in the rain

head bowed

the flowing water

a wisp of smoke rises

pipe in hand

gulls swoop and caw

littered docks

the lighthouse

dreamt as

a tower

now

intervenes

casting light

shadows dance

across your gentle face

tender thoughts

the dried corsage

held deep

in the fisherman’s pocket

remembers you.

old-fishing-boat-robert-lacy

Jacarandá

Our imagination built
a treehouse in the back
of the apartment building
against the parking stalls,
playing on Kelsman Drive
in Culver City, high
in the outer reaches
of the Jacarandá. In the
summer the branches
smelled edible sweet
with pale pink purple
blossoms that hung
like bunches of grapes.
We would sit on the hill
or stand on the roof of parking
stalls, swing from the
branches and jump to the
ground, rolling down the
hill. I see it all even now,
drawn in memory. But
at seven, I didn’t want
to forget so with my
birthday present, I
took a photograph,
just in case.

– For Ivanna

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