ANOTHER POEM

MUSE

What happened to the woman
who had such soft curves? she speculates,
turning from the mirror, ungainly
in her movement, damp hair clinging
to her neck in curlicues.

She rotates the ring that orbits her finger, recalling
the sweet scent of tempestuous love
when their souls co-mingled, his hands drifted
lingeringly along her electrified skin, honey
flowed from his lips to hers.

She is drained by the drama
of their separately joined lives,
the words that ricochet between them.
She longs to be irresistibly desired,
a Muse of passion.

Crumpled memories lie in the depths
of a drawer, occasionally unearthed
to hark back to what once was.
But their exhumations
have become infrequent.

Gazing out the window she watches
rain create miniature craters
in muddy soil while the saffron eyes
of her cat keep intense watch
over each movement she makes.

SHARING A POEM I WROTE

RAIN LANGUAGE

The rain ceases, leaving wrinkles
upon the earth; plumes of clouds
float sluggishly overhead,
depleted of energy.

Worms expelled from soggy soil
create undecipherable script
upon the moist sidewalk, native
code talkers furtively communicating.

Watery diamonds quiver upon
a single strand of spider silk,
embellishing the uplifted arm
of a fir swaying to a rumba beat.

Rain-pasted leaves fashion
a collage of environmental textures
alongside the river running brown
with the flesh of the mountains.

A shivering wind creates rings
that echo across scattered puddles.
Along the pathway miniature craters
comprise a moonscape on which I stroll.

Stars swim in puddles and river
and I recall memories of grunion dancing
on a California beach one sultry
summer evening, defying my grasp.

The fragrance of grass after the rain
is a breathtaking essence
of renewal and beginnings,
an aide memoire of growth.

I witness the writing of water
across windows, and covet
its clarity.