It Does Not Matter

It does not matter what I write
of blood-soaked bathroom floors and notes
or bloody birthing tables;
of bodies huddled in the dark;
of children laughing on the grass;
of lovers cuddling tenderly
beneath a knitted blanket
a chilly Autumn day –
it doesn’t matter what I say
or in what way I say it.
I ignite thoughts for bushels,
little candles glimmering
in bowls on weathered windowsills
that no one ever sees.
It does not matter what I write
because I write for me.

A Clearing and a Lake

The grass is tossed and tumbled
in shining colored waves
that ripple in warm bursts of wind
across the verdant clearing.

The smell of sage and pine needles
is lifted to the water’s edge
and bursts down heavily against
its glossy sun-streaked surface.

Life is smaller here and simpler,
primeval maybe, but rich.
As rich as the shining colored waves of grass
tossed by the breeze, scent-laden.

Need

Do you remember
When we sat together?
It seems so long ago. 

You planted your head in my lap.
And spread your hair like petals all about you

I was storm clouds, full of rain and
My fingers were drops that ceaselessly fell
Over you,
Rejuvenating and invigorating,
Nurturing you
(And blocking the sun, if only I knew).

My fingers fell like water droplets and traced
Every line, every subtle contour of your face –
And pooled in the places that made you smile –
Memorizing them for a later date.

For now I guess.
For when you had outgrown the need for water,
The need for rain, 
And me.
For when my raindrops, falling down,
But held you down
And blocked the sun.

Then you spread your leaves wider,
And pushed taller than my clouds.

You grew without me,
Past me,
Toward the sun
And toward eternity.