Sunday, July 19, 2015


 dripping footsteps
 in woods and hollows,
 swirling on the blacktop,
 alive with hidden fear
 of a self
 pining for its own loss
  in the trees above the pond:
  who walks there
  trying to find me, seeing my end?
   if I was, I could grow alone
   like green leaves on a weathered trunk
   and learn how to dream,
   for memory seeks eyes
   as the bare trees scratch sky for light
   <moths dreaming of an empire
     of wool on fire \light>
     the flame inside,
     the window painted
     with our breath
     and playful scrawls
      clothe my bones,
      unravel my true nature:
      the dirt I'd do - if no one saw -
      cleansed in the fire

Wednesday, July 1, 2015


 skimming barrio sky,
 suckling honeysuckle
 outside my kitchen window
  we are sun
  and defy gravity
  and transmute bitter to sweet
   what word from the dead?

Copyright 2015 Charles David Miller All rights reserved