Misting rain
Seeping cold
Specks of fog
   too small to roll away
   too large to dissipate

Protect yourself
Put on extra layers
   and come outside
Let the closeness of the cold
Wrap itself around you

Look up and see a sky
That is not too far away

The beauty is close
And soft
And it comes to you
   touching you
   leaving itself on you

The cold that seeps
Is a soft cold
It is a gift of itself
Given because
  that's what beauty does

Dec '03

I hide from the sun
From the heat and the work
From the promise and the movement
In a dark, cool place I hide
Until the sun moves on
To rouse others with her call to play 

When all her songs have faded
With all her playmates gone
Then I am free to rise and stretch
Breathing in the peace left behind

I neither dance nor revel in the dark
Only breathe and live
Soaking in the moonbeams
Resting in the shade

© Maria Morales, 2007

I am the master of the indirect path. Why? Because I have sensitive skin.
I cannot walk in the full glare of the sun on the wide, clear path.
I have to stay in the woods, in the shade, and find my own way.
I'm in no hurry.  Twice as long is acceptable because I say it is.
I will reach my destination, and I will remain whole.

The cool shade strengthens me.  The solitude caresses me.
The lack of expectation fills my lungs with clean, fresh time.
Nothing slows me down because I do not carry speed.
Those who arrive before me will be surprised when I appear.
But I will join them all the same, and my path will join theirs,
     in memory.

© Maria Morales, 2004

Being only in my mind, you lead my time away.
And I, perforce, must follow, lest the day
Be hollow and empty without you.
You.  You dream.  You thief who steals my heart.
You vapor.  Diaphanous wisps of art
And artifice, riding on the dew.
Eluding every grasp, every reach, every press.
Your motion raising hope at each request
Of contact made and union met.
Yet as the fog can no more move the laden mast,
Your mist can only tease the fingers past
And dissipate, with hope and sun to set.
How oft, of late, I watch your carefree dance.
And wonder at my own resolve to chance
That you might, one day, have weight.
That once, when I your lips implore to speak,
Would feel your breath as warmth upon my cheek.
And there be held by strength ‘til late.
But even as I hope, my knowledge swells.
You are a dream, and solid reason quells
This reverie of consort sweet.
My mind alone does draw your form,
And craft has your attention borne
To this, my soft retreat.
I cannot blame the leaf for harm of wind
Nor fault the board for strike unkind,
Though they do bear the touch.
No.  All I lose in heart, in hope, in time
Is lost by me, whose only crime
Is wanting love too much.
I've made my choice.  I've turned my head
From all the sense that would instead
Place logic at the beam.
And as the world goes on intent,
I sit and gaze.  My days are spent
With mist and breath and dream.

© Maria Morales, 2002