One appreciates the fine gestures, the generosity and attention
until it unceremoniously is taken away.
All that you enjoyed
you now see as a ruse.
All that was felt as unique is nothing but a pattern
with a single changing element which is you.
Items, given to you, are given away
to someone new with a thoughtlessness
amounting to cruelty.
All that was private is now shared with someone not of your choosing.
The new focus of attention
revels in feeling special, sees the fine gestures, the generosity
and attention as unique to only them…reveling how
this blessing is permanent, not to diminish…
until it all comes round again.
When the music, the poets, the art
that you thought were uniquely experienced together
are re-experienced as new to yet another.
You become the lonley depreciated object
cast aside like a scrap piece of paper lying on the ground

Air & Memory

Following you, the breeze lifted the bottom of your curls, suspending the hair in a dance around your head. Wind playing the tendrils like my fingers did hours ago against the soft cushion of pillows cradling you.

The wind rises up with the scent of the sea,  wild honeysuckle, eucalyptus, the green of spring.  Memories,stored in brain cells related to senses, secure this meditative ambling as a moment of aromas – hoping it is with you still, inside this damaged head, in this still body.

Sea grass quivers, quakes. Trees creak in warming wind. A red-tail hawk cries hunting the bluffs in slow circles. Movement everywhere enabled by the strength of the wind. I imagine your limbs rising, your body swaying, eyes lifting to watch where the hawk flies.

The sand, warm on the surface, cool as our footsteps churn the wetter layer beneath. The sunlight brings out my freckles. The wind cools the burn on the skin. Promises inscribed in driftwood set out to sea, carrying our intentions to the whole world touched by water.

All the senses are singing, blood quickens, breath draws deep into the lungs. The body is whole, invigorated by all that is today; all that is seen, all that is felt, all that is heard, all that is sense, all that is air. I am with you. I am here. I am memory.

The Unanswered Cry

A burning pain.
Breathe into it they said.
Blood pooling, spilling.
A slow panic rising,
then darkness.
I tried to come back
from the emptiness.
You can’t fill the space where a soul
found sanctuary.
It is a forever loss.
An interior shadow
remains and begs for recognition
And there is the continuing dream
of the crying child
reaching up from their crib
for comfort – an embrace,
and I can only
fall back into the dark,
the panic rising,