what i think

wearing a weeks worry 

cuffed in my blue jeans

i found refuge in the resurrection of yesterday's lover.

 

and who said lovers can't be friends?

i did.  but then time passed, and MISS matured into

WOMAN who saw beyond her wine soaked lips.

lust, if you're scribbling short stories, but introduce

soulfire named BELLE and my game withers, my dignity rises,

and i think i can, i think i can, 

until YOU and I are,

swinging in each others arms

shouting gospels until we cry wolf.

i love you.  i love the way your head sits on my shoulder

little girl, and ex-lover too.  the stress is gone,

buried beneath my winter sweaters.  still sweating from this purge.

a love letter

dear clear lake,

it was never my intention to grow attached to your cattails or whistle guthrie by your flaccid banks. but i have and i do.  i've fallen in your depths, sweet lady - seen belle delight at your holsteins, picked berries under your alders, and conversed patiently with your elders.  i love you and thank you for each kiss of dew across my cheek.  simple and true, my love.  

until tomorrow,

jh

a something

there's a something 

following me

through.

a thud,

bang, or rustle - 

i know its there

as i pick blackberries,

feed belle a bottle,

wash the breakfast bowls.

i hear it, feel it, 

over there,

below me-

like a puppy's nose 

against my ankle

not sure what or why

but i'll keep on 

and hope that it 

does too.