When I sit here and attempt
to dissect some heady argument
make meaning from swirling air
compose a pithy poetic verse
even render life in brushstrokes
I hear the hot water running
for your bath, smell morning
sausage and coffee percolating
down the hall from my sleep
inflated dreams. You are still here
among the extinct faces that grasp
my heart and guide my handiwork.
Taskmaster of perfection, ambitious
to the hilt, I traverse your mountain,
seek ledges to climb onto for respite.
Yet, orange lights up the horizon
burning back the slightest breezes
so that I will never cool nor calm.