After years of being a closet writer, my poems started to tell me they wanted to get out more . I have a roving rambling heart myself so I completely understand . Happy travels .

Sunday, April 25, 1993


The window opened and chilled a breath
The shuddered pane shook down to the breast
The slow rising body cracked morning bones dry
And stumbled a path to the hall asking anyone why
Wanting no one to answer

The body sat on a chair, poured milk into a bowl
Forgetting the cereal, mechanically spooned its soul
Remembering the only two days of its life in a stare
Yesterday was beautiful, tomorrow was hopeful
But today was never really there

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