Claude Monet, Impression, Sunrise, 1872. (Musée Marmottan, Paris)

Bereft of all words
Brush’d underneath impression 
Break of day abides.

The moon and I have always known
I was not meant for the sun.
Pale as her, I burn.
Craters on her skin, and so mine.
She relies on others’ light to shine
and I need them too.

The sun does not resent.
Rays reaching out, he embraces
you and me, all encompassing warmth.
His tender kisses upon our skin,
evidence of his love. Willingly, he gives
the greatest gift, the ability to phase
into who we want to be.

You waltz in dusk and dawn,
watching over all. I see you,
parents of the Earth. Someday,
I’ll return the gifts
you gave to me.

See you there,
at the end
of the universe.

In a dream,
I crossed the line into the divine,
and I found that my mind
could not define
in word nor rhyme
the grace, the place,
the space sublime
in that dream.  

I only recall that
the face that I saw
filled me with awe
in that dream.  

Though I sensed I must leave,
the image perceived
leads me to believe
that some day, in some way
that dream will replay,
and in it I’ll stay.

You feel it too?

This spark between us?

Lean in, my heart, and let it ignite

/

Loving you is easy

Like a slow dance in the evening sun

Like listening to your singing in the shower

Like ways I don’t even know yet

Listening to your steady heart

Choosing a new recipe

A routine to follow

An act to ensure

A promise to stay

This is another poem about the 
color yellow
There will be more
Like the divine
It’s holieness is beyond a poem
But I shall try
with every breath
to show my devotion to that which glows
golden & bright

I’ll always be here,
part of me anyway.

I think we all will linger together,
making up the stars in constellations,
the salt particles in the ocean,
the DNA coursing through the veins of people who haven’t come yet,
but who are on their way.

We will be fingerprints and skin cells and faint whispers,
the faded signatures and discolored photographs.

Parts of us will always linger,
always and forever.

Evermore.

My day passes like this:
Silas is home,
Silas is not home,
Silas is home,
Silas is sleeping,
awake,
out the front door,
Silas is walking back in.

Women Shaped Bodies, by Laura Cranehill

each year / i wonder / if i’ll see them /
in the current / golden threads /
of dust and light / a poem
calling out / poems /
in the stone birdbath / chirruping / hello /
a stranger / from two counties over /
& still / it reaches /
& still each june / they come / again /
poems / little ribbons / i cannot touch /
catching wing / making a path / to
where i am / even here / in my empty
/ chest / of poems / i leave / my line /
in the current / poems /
threads tense and / slack /
the air

It’s a priveledge and pleasure to share this time and space with you all each June. Looking forward to 2027 already! 

Fresh coffee.
Peaceful surroundings.

There is something
beautiful about a
quiet neighbourhood.

Once everyone else
has left.