Ripper

3 a.m., and streets are quiet;
all but the "plink" of water dripping
from the bridge into puddles
I can see in the moonlight.

That light shines in veins
on the black walkway,
and if I were dreaming
I'd think I hit the mother lode.

It is mid-spring,
a comfortable evening,
albeit humid -
which makes me shiver.

A lone cicada
in a tree outside a shop
shakes out a maraca beat,
but no one joins in.

I'm unsure why
my heart is pounding so,
when all I seek
is peace.

A ridiculous longing
grips me,
and I half expect you
to walk out into the moonlight.

But, I know I can't conjure you,
so I stay under the bridge,
reluctantly experiencing
solitude.

Clover

I always think of you.
Today, it was a field of clover and low clouds.
I could smell the rain in those clouds, and instantly, tasted the raindrops from your lips.
I caught the perfume of the clover, and felt those blossoms there, beneath us.
Our legs akimbo, the breeze on our skin, our fingers entwined.
I heard the lapping of the lake against the shore, the water fowl gathering in the reeds.
Their families are growing, and I'm recognizing the babies getting older.
Soon they'll have new ones.
It's another season we've loved each other.
This one ever so slightly different from the last, yet still giving hope.
I will keep feeling you in the breezes, seeing you, hearing you.
You are in my heart.
It is steady, even in excited anticipation.