tavira

her streets are empty
and dark and cold
yet the tile and cobblestone
hold stories untold
we walked through the ruins
of old castle walls
and listened--so softly--
to the sounds when night falls
this country, this place,
this beautiful land
is enchanting, yet haunting
all made from His hand
wide wonder inside me
is countered with fear
that not many know Him
who call it "home" here
and yet this He knows
and yet this He sees
yet one day, oh some day
they'll fall to their knees.


H

begin again

family picture. passport. keys. ring. converse shoes. checkbook. blanket. a list of names. bible.

the clock ticks and tocks
and strikes ten.

i don't hear much, except white noise
the silence flowing peacefully throughout a quiet house
black-framed photographs watch me from across the room
in a pile rests supplies that will accompany thursday's suitcase.

a puzzled reflection stares back at the world
don't leave me hanging here, stuck between two lives
you know, don't you, what's about to come
and yet you hold your secrets tightly;
no one promised fifty years
though at times twenty would suffice
and now, though i've started so many times,
it'll all begin again,
but not before it ends.
because it must end, ironically.


each of these things means something different to me right now.
though different, all connected
in some way or another.


H