Hallowed Haiku

The October wind
 whistles our wedding march, Love.
 White veils mask our fear.

Wendy Darling

Heart of my youth,

how old you have gotten; 

your wrinkles now deep as my love. 

Your shadow is staid, 

while mine dances around you, 

I've watched you grow gray from above.

Heart of my youth,

your adventures are over,

but mine have just only begun.

Your gait is so slow now, 

each footstep unsteady, 

I flit with the ease of the young. 

Heart of my youth,

I remember you fondly,

you come to me often in dreams,

but time passes by you,

it shapes and it alters,

and nothing can stay as it seems. 

Heart of my youth,
we were once bound together,
we faced each new day as a pair.

Now I reach for your shoulder, 

stretch out for your hand, 

and my fingers touch nothing but air. 

Red String Theory

Two halves of one whole;

the red thread left its mark, love:

rope burn on our souls. 

The Blood of Minutes

Every day without you 

is a day wasted: 

it finds me killing time, 

sacrificing hours 

on the alter of responsibility. 

But how could I believe 

that the blood of minutes 

would not stain eternity? 

Seconds fall away like leaves, 

decaying before they land. 

The House Unbuilt

Love is a house unbuilt, darling. 

And though our foundation is strong, 

my arms cannot raise these walls alone. 

So swing high your hammer, 

and freckle your face with paint. 

We will build a life together. 

The Best Intentions

Life is a first and 

final draft- write your story 

intentionally.

In Feast or Famine

Feed yourself well, 

my love. 

Fill yourself 

with goodness, 

so that good bubbles 

out of you 

like laughter, 

so that it seeps 

from every pore 

and pools 

in the dimples 

on small of your back. 

What you have been given, 

share with others, 

and you will always 

have 

enough. 

Semantics

Maybe the problem is we're two romantics-

searching for fate amidst all the semantics,

praying the stars will one evening uncross,

blaming the cosmos for loves that we've lost.

We can find meaning in meaningless acts,

twisting the knives in our unblemished backs.

Maybe we ponder, we ruminate cud, 

searching for answers in wishing well's mud, 

all along we've had the one thing we need:

gratitude often leads hearts to be freed. 

Sleeping Beauty Haiku

We dance in our dreams-

the stars cannot restrain us.

We are effortless.

All Things Work Together

Your love was 

gale force winds, 

and my branches 

could not help but bend. 

We were meant for more 

than the mundane,

but even we could not fathom 

the destruction in our wake. 

And what is more holy 

than an act of God? 

We are washed clean 

in the rising floodwater.

Windswept and Still Standing

Hold on tight, love. 

Tattoo half moons

into your palms, 

white-knuckled 

hairpin-curved 

fingers, clenched. 

Do not loosen your grip, 

though your hands 

grow weary 

and blood springs 

from the crescents 

you have dug there. 

Hold on, 

my darling.

Pull taut the rope 

that anchors 

you to me, 

but do not be 

swept away. 

Weathergirl

I don't believe in 

love at first sight- 

love is never that simple. 

I don't believe in 

love at first sight, 

but baby, 

you made me a believer 

in visions 

because when I met you, 

I could see our future 

so clearly. 

And I am no weathergirl, 

but I knew you 

were the hurricane 

that would finally 

break me. 

Not Enough Poems

There are 

not enough poems 

in the world, 

love- 

not enough words, 

not enough metaphors, 

not enough stanzas 

or meters 

or rhymes. 

There are 

not enough poems 

in the world, 

darling, 

to capture the look 

in your eyes 

when we kiss, 

or the softness 

of your skin 

beneath my fingers.  

There will never be 

enough words 

for you. 

Mona Lisa at Midnight

You.
You are a 
masterpiece 
that not everyone 
can see. 
Like the first time 
you showed your father 
a self-portrait 
in crayon 
and he patted your head 
and told you 
it was a beautiful 
rainbow. 
You 
are Mona Lisa 
at midnight, 
but darling, 
I have memorized 
every 
single 
brushstroke 
across your cheeks 
so believe me 
when I tell you: 
you are more 
than pigment 
on a once-white page. 
You 
are a masterpiece, 
and those 
who cannot see it 
are blind.