Shadows dart
across the floor
a mouse is playing nearby
the tick-tock of the clock
maintains the rhythm
that creates the illusion
of a universal pupose
we all seem to have, to dream.





December rain wake me
wet and naked on the grass
exposed for all to see, shivering
in my shame, my pain dripping
upon the earth, soaked in the dream.




In a crowded Christmas scene, the old man sits at the head of one of the many tables, staring at his hands, funneling through the years like a time traveler. Although the noise is deafening, he thinks quietly; he misses her so. Why was he here, and she gone? Sweet Zella. Sweet Zella: always smiling. All his brothers, sisters, war-buddies, friends, and his sweet Zella: all dead. But he remains . . . in this crowded room, listening for her voice, waiting to become part of the dream.


Sleep baby boy.
Slumber so peacefully
warm in perpetual dream.

I never held you. But I will always hold onto you.


We’re all missing someone this season. Some of us are missing many. And in grief words may mean next to nothing. But make no mistake: even though, we don’t see them with our eyes open, they are here, loving us as we have always loved them.