Melting into rivers
of ink
I pooled into poetry;
Where nature settled
into a smooth embrace
stirred only by the wind
and fishes.

Too intimately tangled
to unwrap these thoughts
of mine, from yours.

There's a time
at the beginning
of love

you make
your own
weather

whatever the weather is
it is unfailingly
fine.

The music playing
into my hands
the ink of a poet's pen
too dark for reflection
in uneasy light.

Incognito

words sliced open
spilling sticky syllables.

The rhythmic drip, drip,
dripping of rain from the eaves
blends with constant soft, sweet whispers
of countless drops kissing the leaves.