8:30 in New Jersey

The evening air is still—

Black ice it lies in waiting—

Walking with the cold

I watch asphalt exhaling.

If winter had a home—

Or frost a day to rest—

It be within this heart,

It be within this breath.

Golden

Tree lined
suburban, shadowed
street signs
stand aloof
in the quiet morning
daylight gloom
of happy homes
opened doors
and kisses. Questions
fall like flower petals
on sidewalks, cracked
by ancient roots
whose planted hands
can only tell
the difference between
early mornings
and daylights answers.
But the sky is new,
and the desert
Golden, only as old
as the moon which hangs
still as the sun
does rise over broken
glass bottles, which dress
Winnetka, asphalt
like a torn evening gown
come morning.

a new days morn

Golden white light

of a new days morn

pours through glass

another day reborn

In the ashes of night

there lies but a thorn

plucked from the side

no flesh had been torn

White sheets toss n tangle

cold toes on the floor

unfathomable visions

eyes closed I see more

Her inflow of breath

his outflow explores

the depths of her hair

do please stay the course

There’s reason in knowing

what comes from the source

in the golden white light

of a new days morn.