On my pillow fresh dews shiver,
as I brush aside memory's curtains,
in Love's morning light.
A portrait of you I paint in my mind,
a face of happiness lost, too sad to define.
I keep it in a frame of yesterdays' lies,
and polish it with laments divine.
At the Library
Here, silence isincomplete
breaks in fear
from the grasp
of softened ears
Words spoken aregolden leaves
from un-useful trees
Flipped pages dancelike playful butterflies
to horror movie
A monk I amincomplete
at the foot
of a mountain