The Box of Photographs

A box of photographs,
do I dare flip the lid,
expose the past?

My fingers are tentative.
My eyes are as ready to look away
as they are to stare.

Can’t help wondering
how the faces of the
dead will treat me.

Same with my younger self.
Will it mock me?
I used to make fun
of my elders
when I was that age.
Why should it be any different?

But these are my memories,
like my head
only with actual evidence,
more solid proof
than anything my mind can conjure.

Above all,
they’re the truth.
Lies never could look straight
into a camera.

Had I Been Born a Bird

It would have been beautiful.
She would have carried me
in her talons or beak,
flying high as the beat of my heart.

And, without a thought, releasing me
to find my own wings or fall to Earth.

I would have been raised
and then fledged according to her will,
to travel west into the fading sun,
for a roost that was not of her making.

Stars

They’re beginning
to emerge from daylight
and fill the sky with glitter—

these stars are there
before us
whether we look
or don’t—

they are not designed
to be seen, exactly

but where is the reward
in any other purpose?

On My Night Walk

In ebony air,
there’s a finely woven feel.

It is a cleansing of day,
a forgiveness
reinforced by
the smoothing over
of every bump,
each ditch.

In skillet black,
identity begins with the feet,
ascends the spine
to the eyes,
awakens night vision.

Blades of grass,
tree trunks,
make themselves known
in copious ways
from the electric surge
to the humming of their arteries.

Above me,
stars refute their sense
of otherness,
sparkle like a mirror
of the deity within.

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image: Pixabay