I’m feeling small 
nary a bump 
or a blemish 
not quite invisible 
certainly not inviting 
much less rock
or even stone 
nor a pebble 
smaller than that 
maybe just dust 
for dust is
just about all 
that dust might 
hope to be 

We miss what
we miss when 
we miss it
not a moment 
too soon or 
ever too late 
for missing is
when missing must 
never before but
almost always after 

Looking and wondering 
laying here thinking 
sighing slowly smiling 
touching softly kissing 
recalling and laughing 
missing longing yearning 
these early morning 
hours belong to 
the ings that 
we all do 

The piano drifts 
just like snow 
it gathers slowly 
becoming a mountain 
like a rumor 
it teases seduces
envelopes and chills 
and like warm 
kisses that water 
lovers and their 
desire making them 
blossom and bloom
until the end 
like when winds
of Autumn blow 
they sweep away 

I write the voices 
of the ancients and 
of the unknown who 
speak to me of
such things that no 
one can understand of
things and of places 
of people and of
thoughts long ago forgotten 
I live amongst ghosts 
who sit quietly awaiting 
their turn to return 
to their own once 
again and then perhaps 
they will go away 
making room for more