the hours of you that remain

we say goodnight,
then goodnight,
and once more a goodnight
of softening kisses –
just as the dawn
cracks the night

I count the hours of you
that remain to me,
and tuck them about us –
thin comfort against
the coming light

© Sarah Whiteley

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say amen

who gives a damn, anyway?

say amen

and then try to forget
the shape of the hands
you carved your heart to fit

there were just too many
small holes to forgive

the hymn left to sour
the edge of your tongue
was never hallelujah

although we tried
so hard to make it so

but who gives a damn, anyway?

say amen

and then let it go and dance
through the vacancy of places
that should never be absent

quiet the lightning –
there’s no stump left to strike

say amen
not hallelujah
say amen, the end

© Sarah Whiteley

to be treasured

Coyote rests on the fence post –
clucking and bobbing,
he does not hide his pleasure
from the April sunshine

we sit on the side porch –
laughing at crow antics
over a well-worn cribbage board,
my hair becoming tangled
in the ivy on the wall

© Sarah Whiteley

A lovely way to spend a Sunday afternoon – enjoying a break from Saturday’s rain. Coyote chose to join us and was so obviously happy basking in the sunshine, it was almost comical. Our new-ish neighbor stumbled upon us and no doubt is wondering if we’ve both gone senile, talking to a crow. Ah well – keep them guessing, I say!

Have a beautiful week, my friends!

*

listening to the day’s
wakening heartbeat,
the unseen thrush
trilling in the still-dark
before the January dawn,
I can almost sense you
turn in your sleep –
and this is my survival:
even in the act of leaving
I am always coming home

© Sarah Whiteley

In one more short month, I’ll be heading (again) into lengthy workdays and ungodly hours. Somehow the thought of it is even more difficult this time around knowing there’s a warm and wonderful soul waiting for me at home. And yet… there’s a warm and wonderful soul waiting for me at home! How lucky am I?

tangible/intangible

here again is that anticipated
when of you,
more of if than of ever

and I tell myself I can picture
your bare feet
on my floorboards

convince myself I wouldn’t mind
the invasion
of my space – its sanctity

overrun by the solid reality
of an other
sweeping aside the silent hours

for tangible skin –
currently irrelevant
in intangible when

© Sarah Whiteley