morning trickles out

a puddle of honey

catching me mid-stream

in thick amber musings

somewhere a clock ticks

on and on and on

like the buzz of a bee

hovering above the rose

time levels all traps

both the fierce and the sweet ones

until we swim dance or simply

slide to another place

new moon

finds a seed

caught between

ragged cement fragments

names her little sister

sun

when did June turn to

double digits when

did that limb of

the neighbor's

red maple 

die

silence sits

like a tent on a 

silver misted plain

welcoming all

holding 

few

we are all the

middle child sitting

between hope on one side

and... we can't name

the other side can

we

Happy Birthday Robert Schumann

8 June 1910 - 29 July 1856

the white knuckles are mine but

claiming them does not loosen their grip

nor does such ownership contain the

sigh that escapes like a gray cloud

skating across blue sky.

I listen to a story about Robert Schumann

and his depressions which causes

me to to think that maybe it might be

the work emerging from these

white knuckles this gray sigh

that redeems and supports

another day.

there are those who call me foolish
and even some who think me wise...

the only fear I have
the only danger I perceive
is that I should begin to
believe them and lose
the trust of my own
voice which even
when whispering
tells me the
truth of 
me