Forlorn
Forlornness on the glassy face of the northern lake where the loon flaps its wings once, twice, thrice and flies toward the source of light; the skipping stone in the opposite fashion flies back to its source: the open hand of the boy. Flapping, skipping, the movement of air, ethereal like your body, my beloved, curves and caves I’ve caressed and enjoyed
— The gutters need to be cleaned before autumn. Are you listening to me?
Open palms bestowing love, small begonias, fern roots by the lake shore, sun rays ripple on the surface, waking the owl on the tall conifer, wisdom in creative motion
—Eating two servings of ice cream will make you fat
Your death echoes onto the shadow of the aspen outlined on the green forest floor, and all movement is momentarily suspended like my dream
— Stop spending your time with the computer. Do come here next to me
A bad omen becomes reality, and the loon turns back to the water, wings flap backward, and the skipping stone keeps skipping until it dives deep in its watery purpose, like my heart in the darkness of your absence
—You know, we could look for another set of furniture for the living room

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