Butterfly

Turning a key
half way,
counter-clockwise.

A slow revolution
of rusty hinges,
screaming me a warning
upon thoughtless ears.

Slow and silent steps
along a cold hardwood floor,
as snow skitters inside.

The wooden chair on the floor,
the rope hanging from the ceiling.

And the tape rewinds.

I drift out with the winds
and meander up the dusted walkway.

I turn the key,
clockwise.

Peering inside I see the chair,
upright by the kitchen table.

In it I sit,
drinking my morning coffee.

Forgiveness Rarely Granted

Outside a cold and foggy window
the rain is pouring upside down.
On the wall sits the shadow of a willow,
like you sliding on your nightgown.
The floor creaks under bare feet,
and fire has become cinders.
Sweat has soaked through the sheet
with dreams  of a former winter.
My heart is full of holes
patched with poorly applied plaster.
My mind is full of lost souls
that can’t remember the sound of laughter.
 
I hope when I reach heaven’s gate
God will forgive me for showing up late.