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The Recurring
His skin is a white tree in the cold.
His face, a bright ghost.
There is no winter here in Texas,
but the light changes, grows sharper,
keener, and it was breath to me
as I walked up the hillside
to school, catching the wind
with my throat.
In the dreams I've had of him,
it is raining. A light mist,
and then I wake to an empty room feeling
happiness as though happiness exists.
He was the rain, he would come and go,
he was there for everyone.
His face, a bright ghost.
There is no winter here in Texas,
but the light changes, grows sharper,
keener, and it was breath to me
as I walked up the hillside
to school, catching the wind
with my throat.
In the dreams I've had of him,
it is raining. A light mist,
and then I wake to an empty room feeling
happiness as though happiness exists.
He was the rain, he would come and go,
he was there for everyone.
Posted 05/27/12
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