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irrational eggs for breakfast
speeding trains for lunch
through a head that insists
on flitting dangerously in the briers
with
a gracious sparrow, calling
now, now, now

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Anger in the air
We talked of happier days
Leaves started falling.

Cookbook, page 29

Breakfast was unsatisfying
The sunshine made too much of it all
The rain is coming, not nearly soon enough
The birds complained about the bread crusts
(breakfast, sun, rain, birds, bread)
Recipe for a morning.

The night was interrupted twice
The stars made 2 a.m. worth it
I found myself dozing, pen in hand
The rain (still) has not arrived, and I wait
The birds sang me awake so I could write to you
(night, stars, pen, rain, birdsong)
Recipe for joy.

Separated by inches

Pacing at the window while the clock ticks in disbelief
Every hour today is wrap’t up in my irreverent grief.

Pointed fingers say it is my choosing and I take my penance
Our two languages have robbed us of our romance like a thief.

Agendas were voted on and no one else could be deemed errant
Watching twenty years drop one by one like an October leaf.

Outside I hear the robin’s and the bluejay’s raucous discontent
‘Twould be arrogant to view their passing as more than merely brief.

Oh Rose, you have done yourself in by worry’s cunning snares
All your cares now laid upon pillows of music and belief.

**

I dislike epilogues, or explanation of any kind accompanying poetry. But, this poem is a long time coming, and promised to Uma at One Grain Amongst the Storm . I read and enjoy his ghazal poems, a form in which I have wanted to try for some time, with only confidence holding me back. Like the haiku, the ghazal comes with a respected history, of which I would not want to disrespect with poor lines.

All that to say, here is my version of an English Ghazal. Thank you

Measure twice, cut once

She was my biggest fan
when I was not even sure
of my words, always failing me
to get what was inside
on the outside

I was her biggest critic
(there was a time)
when I saw only anger
my way of grieving over a life
that could not be reversed

Here I am
twenty years past
thumbing through volumes
rifling over fabric scraps
to find a pattern
to answer questions

and all I see is love
through the eyes
of the mercy of time past
how she took reams of my words
sharing them
sowing them like seeds

then dead at 56
we were out of time
and any chance to bridge gulfs
and sew seams, but I remember
how we had pie and coffee
and laughed