Red eyed morning

The sun isn't even up yet
but the train is running,
shaking the walls
and the bed
and the earth beneath its
tracks.
The bells replace the birds
once the roads start to frost over
and the green glow
emanating from the trolley cars
precedes the yellow winter daylight.
Red eyes stare into the bathroom
mirror as the body leads itself out
the front door.

The dreamcatcher in the window
is old and tattered.
The powder blue feathers are duller
Than when they were first attached.
It looks as if it's holding
onto a lot if dreams.
It has more likely been
forgotten by a long-gone dreamer,
whose dreams no longer need
protecting.

Sometimes on cloudy days,
you can look up into the
sky, through the haze and
see the shape of the noon sun.

Don't try on blue days.
Without the clouds,
the sun is free to graze on the whole sky
and its shape is undetectable.

If you look too long,
eventually you'll be staring at stars
and they're a whole different song.

Going Home

When we're grown ups,
bedtime will be togethertime.

No more long goodnights
in frozen air,
with numbing lips
and tousled hair.

Your bed and my bed
will be the same location
where our dreams will entwine
the way our legs will.

Our clothes will inevitably mix
in the generations-old dresser
whose top drawer I'll
struggle to reach.

Can you feel it?
We're grown-ups, almost.
Not quite.

Not like the song.

Your heart is a room

where my toes are never cold
where the furniture is always comfortable
where the lighting is just right.

Keep me there, with a love
that lasts the seasons,
and gives me all the reasons
to stay for a long, long while.

You happen upon me,
the best I've been in years.

Eyes aglow, reflecting the setting summer sun,
and with one foot out the door.

We're growing apart,
but are still eerily similar.

That connection we have will
live as we do. Until we don't.

But then -

And then?

Seasonal

the sky is that
hazy shade of summer grey
that always tells you
to expect a shower later on.
It's vaguely similar
to the Boston winter mornings
whose afternoons turn
the whole world white.

Well, maybe not your world,
but certainly mine.