Skin that heals, sores that no longer
ache, hope that croons on candlelit...

The notice before me is a parasite,
no longer matter that I'm musing over...

I am reflected in every shopping window,
half mutt, half widow of Wall Street...

...

The day mourned as if every tree base
was a rueful cry that became softened...

I took my daughter Beth to our backyard apple tree
where lambent sunshine chased soft-sung sparrows...

Make a wish upon
Candlelight Avenue...

The art of dreaming does not come from fantasizing...
but arises from the flaming core of one's soul...

I blame myself for staying weak
without guiding and praying daily...

You held your heart to my chest
so I would remember the pound...

You wrote me an ekphrasis
reflecting upon my fingers...

.
Meditate on what we have now...