upon turning twenty six

 distance between heartbeats lengthens

distance between birth days shortens

I am in the time of ripe plums

steady pace of noon approaching

stride settled somewhere

between quickened and longed

and yet

balanced ledger of time

means

time to risk it all

the year

was it not enough, to

muddy boots outside door

wind rifling through hair

yours is so long now

gust teasing out

new greys

like our hands did once

was it not enough, to

breathing honeysuckles

with eyes closed

inhale silent memory

was it not enough, to

showing one another

the year's growth ring

we are still here

a remark between crow's feet

deepened

since last conversation

between our eyes

when they cut us down

they will see the hardened lines

but will never see this softness

was it not enough, to

go another year?

ex sanctum

 search for a red door

his mouth, perhaps

her fingernails

you wander so

morbidly

some would say

who will open for you

a sanctuary

search for a red door

slightly off-color will do

a maroon leather bible cover

(discarded)

a hollyhock head

(trampled or otherwise)

you are not

beyond all welcome

search for a red door

red of stop

red of stay

red of mirror to wound

 I see an old lover tomorrow

I forget the exact taste

although it may have changed

by now

is it impolite to ask?

we have both shed skin and names since 

I fear it rude

to bring up the scent of someone who no longer exists

they

 I require they

not for its neutrality

but for its plurality

all my selves

are inevitable

unto themselves

and can no sooner be

evaded grammatically

than they could

corporeally

or shall I pluck

each hair on my head

one by one and tell you -

man, woman, or child?

 what I lack in vulgarity

I make up for in aphorism

both accomplish the necessary task

of holding present moments

at arm's length

Rules of War

 I want my children to know

That I stood naked beneath waterfalls

Carried spicebush leaves in my pockets

Smelled the onion grass from yards away

And knew time of day by song of bird

I want my children to know

So that in the wars to come

They will never kill a tree in battle

"Perhaps a forest was once here,"

They will say

Eyeing a lone beech

Or perhaps poplar

"Our mother told us of this.

She used to bath there

Although she did not bathe us

There."

They will let the tree live

And the birds

Will add their names to the sagas

When the time

Is right.