Goodbye for a Season

I can hear the air burning in the furnace,
but see the cold ashes fluttering in the draft.
No more celebratory open fire
with copper glowing
and our feet propped up to the flames.
This is the start of the lone times
when I’ll see you later,
so much later than we know.

Today we dug out your car.
It could have been me that gave the plowman
one hundred dollars to hold you with snow,
pen you in with white drifts so large
it took all morning to clear the way.
The noonday sun melts your windshield.
We laugh and I see the light
gleaming on your teeth.

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The Tea Room

The polished mahogany rail
is cool to my touch coming down,
smooth like cut marble, wet with aloe vera.
Potted tropical plants
festoon the dining room
creating candor
in nooks and crannies;
grottos and cubby holes
of I love you
and I love you not,
where deals are cast
and promises made
and secrets revealed
and sometimes traded.

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State of Mind Shine

Do not look to static mirrors
for your reflection.
You are shimmering far more
than their flat surface can detect.
You, who screws up your face
in animation, elation, and determination,
are infinitely more lovely
than overly self-aware postures
caught in a frame.

Your personal style is radiating grace,
and happiness, and love.
And when your face shatters
into tears of laughter,
loss, or loneliness,
let pools of water be your guide
as to how you really look.

Use the weather
to determine your appearance.
The air is dictating
storm fronts and then warm days.

Kept

He is so sleek and elegant
until I call him Mister Dumpling Bum
and all manner of witty, kitty diminutives.
He is the apple of my eye, my Pumpkin Pie.
I call him Fatty Lumpkin and I don’t know why.
He doesn’t cringe when I talk baby talk,
he looks at me with such love.
He’s both the king and court jester,
chasing his tail, and looking down from above.

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Cooking

I found that the nothing from trying too hard,
spreading too thin,
is like not enough egg whites
and the whole batch is flat.

I give each pearl as I find it,
hopefully imperfect
like that snatch of music
that doesn’t keep on key,
like honey bees fed weeds,
like cheese that is moldy
in a strangely delicious kind of way.

Today’s art is a circle of white
with zero inside;
a canvas of snow,
a painting of very nearly clear water
except for that one bubble,
a kernel of an idea
floating off to the side.
If I add some salt and pepper

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