the enigma

every time I sit with her,
I slip into the silence of a forest,
where mysteries are written
on festive fronds,
dancing in the light
of the darkness around.

every time I sit with her,
I grow into a still leaf,
hanging on the edge
of not knowing
when and how I'm going to
fly or fall.

every time I sit with her,
my eyes close all on their own,
taking me deep into the void,
where everything marries nothing,
where thoughts freeze over a warm lake,
where I sit on the edge
watching ripples make stars,
lost in the wonder of how
humans and animals live together,
skin against skin,
how words fall like dead leaves
to the forest floor,
how skins smell and touch each other
without touching,
with a quiet, endless love.

the weight of clouds

these clouds have a mind of their own.
or no mind. when I watch them
come and go
without reason,
without announcements,
they passover
on tip toes,
walking on wings I cannot see,
but only feel in the pores
of this skin held taut,
now filled with the weight
of these weightless clouds.

there is a joy that's quiet, 
with no flairs and flourishes, 
nor expressed 
with exclamation and gushes,
just a simple, silent celebration 
of everything and nothing, 
like falling snowflakes 
melting into a warm earth.

lying here,
stretched to my bones,
listless and worn,
an empty parchment,
listening to a thousand songs,
waiting to be written,
and rolled out
into the world.
undone.