We scattered whispers
like the falling of leaves
in October – truths on
top of truths on top of
lies, like oranges on reds
on yellows. We were the
voices carried in the wind,
left to fall on eager ears as
we swooped and swayed,
picking up dirt and debris,
slowly growing louder
past the season, until our
whispers began to howl
obscenities in the winter,
with only the promise of
a christened white slate
of snow, scattered among
our words to hide them.


I think about the sparrows
still falling from the sky,
from that poem I once read
but couldn’t quite understand;
something about loneliness,
tugging mercifully at the old
heart strings like a good vinyl
playing in the background of
a coffee shop while it rains.
Or maybe it’s only projection;
self-acceptance of a battered
lonely heart unable to write,
unable to sing and fly, like
those broken fallen sparrows,
crushed beneath the weight
of sorrow and a writer’s pen.