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Painting: Modigliani.

So, we must laugh before that day may come;

before that twilight leaves us little choice

when both will mourn our last day in the sun

when colder silence muffles all our voice.

Yet greet me now; be kind before the fall.

Accept our hours together precious few

with no resentment for each time I call

with no assessment I am stressing you.

So many words,  unspoken,  stall mid-air.

They cause a pause become a gulf  between.

Make use of precious hours we might share.

Instead, you’re here, yet turn away, unseen.

I speak, apart,  but do not wish to be

so distant only forest hears my plea.

“The Birth of a Hurricane”

It’s steamy in the southern Keys tonight.
Her air is thick. She tastes of salty fog.
A quiet’s fallen with no birds in sight.
Her ocean swells; she’s pregnant with resolve.

Her palms now twist and spin and wave their skirt
and fall too quick from fluttered warmth beneath.
She waits; that stronger flash begins to flirt
as light’ning promises some stiffer teeth.

Expectant, gray light pushes down this beach:
a rising, higher tide begins to form
of something coming just before the breach.
Still hesitant, she wavers in the storm.

She’s here! She’s pushed a new-born screaming style;
she’s grown a full-blown wind to squall awhile !