How Many More Days Are Mine?



Once more

the lid of night lifts up and off.

Years of peekaboo mornings played out,

each a belly thrill – a wordless delight

at that bright face rising east

out of the cobalt pause, where my last dream left.


How many more

days are mine to wake to these limbs?  rickety, twisted by ways wandered

and winds braced,

a dancer’s poise somehow still holding.


Perhaps not many more

will be mine in this spot on the hill, this sanctuary, ever greening,

where I go to sleep,

wait for you to come, and wake me

in blazes of passion pink.


No matter how many, how few.

Those gold and fuschia blooms – or (as sometimes) smoke grey plumes, wound me

so well round and into this forest, to its stone bone floor.

Such bindings, their promises

can’t be undone.











Posted in Poems | 4 Comments