I write 
of nothing 
most times 
but maybe 
my what
is missing 
will mean 
something else 
to someone 
and it
might be 
their all

Lunch of goulash 
with candle burning 
and the mountains 
reaching high for
another helping of
sky bubbles fizz
float and fly
in my glass 
the tiny tink
of fork against 
bowl and spoon 
scrape picking up 
every last bit 
like painters remove 
layers of patina 

I am now 
not a vase
nor a cistern 
pool or pond
but the presence 
that’s held within 
when it’s dry
an absolute empty 
a profound nothing 
the thing unseen 
nada and naught 

A jigsaw puzzle 
kind of day
where the rain 
or promise of
keeps me inside 
a fire burns
as the dog
finds his place 
warm enough close 
and I sit 
and study pieces 
wondering which one 
if any one 
fits the other 
knowing they do 
they always do