Workshop of Love: For Amy

If I were a block of stone,
(and I know sometimes you think I am)
You would be the sculptor's chisel.

If I were a bit of wood,
not large enough to knock upon,
you would be the whittler's knife.

If I were a screw,
I'm talking hardware,
you would be the driver.

If I were a nail,
you would be the pounded thumb
to spare my steely head from harm.

If I were a hammer,
you would be the nail
I would gently loosen from the wall.

If I were sheetrock,
you,
only you,
would be my joint compound.

In the toolshed of my heart,
you wrench me from complacency,
you drill me with passion,
and you caress my tender flesh
with a fresh coat of primer.

You have the key
to my toolbox,
and there is no
tape measure lengthy enough
to encompass our love.

Seasonal Affective Disorder

As I sit in the near-Arctic frigidity
of Winter's icy grip, I grasp
at Jack Frost's talons
frozen solid around my heart.
I attempt to pry them off
with so much futility,
but I hold on to hope.
I know that one day,
ONE DAY,
Spring will indeed come.
Spring will come,
and again and again and again,
I will cavort in fields of love
and black-eyed Susans
while the wind whistles
a merry tune to drown out
the everpresent threat
of impending Winter.

Passing By

Beneath the bridge
lurks a troll
seeking accompaniment
or dinner,
it is hard to tell
with trolls
what precisely
they are looking for.
I am just an innocent
passerby.
Not a billy goat,
and certainly
not gruff.
Just crossing
another bridge
to another place
on my way
to find
what I'm looking for
accompaniment
or, perhaps, dinner.

Cloudy Mirrors

Mirrors,
all around me,
there are mirrors.
Rear-view mirrors portray haunting memories
of what was, side-view mirrors
reveal with naked honesty what is yet to come.
I reject the overcautious claim
"objects may be closer than they appear."
I can measure distance
with the tape measure of love
that stretches from my heart
across vast expanses
and winds back to me
with a furious snap.
I am jarred and confused,
stunned and bewildered...
You stand over there in fields of denial
vacantly watching the world go by.
By and by, the clouds take shape -
horses trot, skiers careen over
cumulus jumps, and knots
are tied -
knitting together our fragile atmosphere.
I realize that, like the clouds, I have changed form.
Storms of passion, drizzle of depression,
swirling tempests of the winds of transformation,
and the sun that shines boldly to illumine
for all to see
who I can be.

The Quill You Clutch

Nerves already bobbing in the wake
of so many phantom hands
reaching from so many tollbooths.
I yearn for back roads, known by heart.
These snaking interstates through
interchangeable states -
states of being, states of mind.
Today, I'm feeling Nebraska,
and tomorrow, perhaps I will feel
the frothy, laughing bubbles of a fountain
caressing my travel-weary skin.
Your caress, your fingers like silk,
your tongue like sandpaper, fine-grained.
You are the cartographer, my body the map.
You bring together the warring nations.
You navigate uncharted territory
with the dexterity of a Medieval calligrapher.
Truth is the paper, passion the binding,
and with the unstoppable passage of time
I'm finding the quill you clutch is love.
I balance like a porcupine
solid in my precariousness,
teetering on the verge
of plunging in to the murky dangers of love
or choosing to remain safe,
high above the warmth of hearts entwined.