“Love is a journey through waters and stars, through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning, two bodies ruined by a single sweetness”   Pablo Neruda 


Between wake and sleep I feel the brush of your hand  as cold as winters breath. I thought I glimpsed you in lightning strokes through my window, heard your steps come and go down halls still echoing departure as night slips away  the mist of yesterday receding over the lake of time.

So that you may see what is left of me I’ve etched your eyes to mine.
Dismembered by scythes of devastation we scatter like autumn leaves.
You go where gravity pulls you, disappear through shimmering veils or wind
down my cheek like teardrops settling in the hollow of my throat, conscious
fingers of stars gliding over hoarfrost fields or weeping willows sweeping an ice capped pond.


art by Brad Kunkle


The world is wintry blue.
Vast and still yet there
is no comfort in the quiet.
The wolf inside me shakes
the snow from her fur,
travels through dark timbered
forests and blue gray mountains.
There are others moonstruck,
dusted with the same shine.
Together we trace a midnight
hover of crows unaware.

She’s Not A Lady

Winter does not empathize
with withered branches or
displaced birds fleeing waves
of frozen breath.
Her howling wind is a laugh out loud and
she hasn’t the grace to cover her mouth.
A tease of holly and evergreen flicker
at the curve of billowed thighs
glistening folds of hallowed mounds
drift in other worldly sighs ensnared
in her exquisite binds.


art by Karol Bak

last refrain

The earth is powdered snow.

The sun rises in myriad hues.

Nightingales  refuge in my  closet

to mourn December’s last refrain.

Contrails light the  wings of Jays

that flit beneath the lit doorway

settle softly into January’s chill

Shelter  in a pale winter bed




“One day we will learn to give and receive love like an open window and it will feel like summer  everyday”

author unknown


Translation by Bernd @ Neues Vom Hutschi

Der letzte Kehrreim
Die Erde ist Pulverschnee.
Die Sonne geht auf in unzähligen Farben.
Nachtigall suchen Zuflucht in meinem Schrank,
beklagen den letzten Kehrreim des Dezembers.
Weiße Streifen blitzen hinter den Flügeln der Häher,
die durch die beleuchtete Türöffnung flitzen,
sich sanft in die Januar-Kälte setzen,
Geborgenheit finden in einem hellen Winterbett.








solace for lovers

In December the pines still ooze resin.

Lofty crows flit about the snow covered trees,

wisteria once so pleasant choke the burdened trellis,

their summer petals decompose on the rusty gate.

In the branches of evergreens huddled lyrebirds

sing  cantilenas, create the finest opus

for my ears.

Below the angry clouds my hands reach

to the heavens awaiting downy verses to fall

like feathers in my outstretched hands.

I remain unwritten,  a journal of blank pages

left abandoned by a woman feigning nonchalance.

My eyes are a  brooding storm,

the deepest night without a dawn.

In the forest a nightingale sings

her song of solace

to make it easier to bear.



Lynn Gould art