B4Risingdawn

Heavy against the windows, the opaque night isolates and infiltrates, sends the dogs flying to my side, and even in the warmth, under the wash of the firelight, their ears hear coyotes and the pressing sky plays with their minds. With the lights off I can ease my mind, see through the gaunt mask of night, that the darkness is not thick but light and coyotes navigate it like reflections and shadows alike. Their cries send me reeling, fighting my urge to hide, knowing that warmth and flames will not feel so much like flying. I climb until I could be flying and let the stars replace the thoughts in my mind. The trees do not understand my warmt

You are too good for poetry. The spark in your eyes and the gentle curve of your mouth cannot be captured with words. The joy in your laugh and the vibrancy of your smile do not fit in the musty lines of a poem or the wavering strokes of my pen. You are too alive to be pressed between book pages like a flower. You belong among the pines and the deer, your arms a form of art in the brisk air, the sunset painting the sweep of your lashes with russet and the ridges of your cheeks with rose. I will set down my pen and join you there, peel my heart from between these pages and leave the book behind: so I, too can feel the breeze by your side