The Tower

As I ascend the steep staircase
ever turning to the right
in this ancient tower
I don’t think about the 
jostling tourbus or 
the pages in my hand
I think about all the people 
living, dead or long dead
who scuffed wells 
into the stone treads
I lay my hands
to the walls
and I can feel them
They live here these souls
in the touch of their fingers
as they steadied their climb
I feel them in 
their distant voices
echoing off the stone walls
And now I am yet 
one more voice
in this ancient chorus


The winds and steady rain
came last night
tugging on the leafs connection
between spring and
the colder now
So many connections
broken witnessed by
leaves unteathered scattered
across wet pavement

I feel disconnected these days
separation between me
and familiar joys
and easy distractions
Now I find myself
fading emptying
delicate veins appearing
praying for a spring that
will be too long coming

Tiny Nutty Things

To eat a sesame bagel
I must toast
and then slather on 
the soft cheese
The crunch and the smooth
melding on my tongue
Remaining are the seeds
scattered like beautiful 
random memories
dotting the plate
These little remnants 
opportune bliss
against all that 
I have gathered
in pain and duty
I moisten a finger
and attract the seeds
in ones and twos
laying them unhurried
on my tongue 
these tiny nutty 
little things 
In that quieting space
I remember and
I can feel that much is 
still fine and truly well