The Bones of Us

I count the bones of us
as the white moon
sets over ash.

I run them through
my fingers

yours, I think,
mine.

I wait for the bones
to sleep,
disappear,
crumble
into powder.

But they are solid and rough,
sandpaper against my fingers.

Almost-whispered groans
speak answers that
I don’t understand.

The rising moon catches
the white,

I turn them in my hands.

I was a match, and you slate.

What blew our spark so wild?

I hold the bones,
sandpaper against my heart,

waiting for you
to claim them.

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Last Snow

Birds, twigs
in beaks,

busy as a
flurry of snow
in the not-yet Spring.

Dust motes
floating, falling
blowing horizontal,
busy bright
in the light
of the sun.

Yellow tulips
on my windowsill –

Winter holds
to snow bones.

Lengthening days
welcome the flight
of birds, of us.

Others stop here.

Snow, busy busy
covers all who
choose to remain

those who are
not fleet-winged

those who are still,
asleep.

After warmer weather the snow has returned to Cambridge, UK. And this is to those lost from the world this winter, claimed by the season.

The Shape of Love

I do not know
the shape of love
though my life
has fit its form.

Not in a human shape
reflecting two faces –
a newborn.

Nor in a ring,
a golden, endless
circle infinite
in its holding.

In the first
yellow daffodils
after the
bones of winter
break

just as the sun hits

the moment of bloom
and the next moment
when their graceful
dancers’ heads
bow and drop

that describes
the shape of it

how we bloom and fall
in an endless, golden
circle.