By: Emalisa Rose

The winks, the nods, the passing clouds

And off we go, as all begins again
Wound by walls this stucco station.
We stand along its snow stained platform.

The 5:11 passing Brooklyn.
We nod, we wink..sometimes half smile.

I take my seat with you across the aisle.

We ride beside those burnt out buildings
with rotting roofs no longer prettied
by the April crocus.

The teal of twilight painting rainbows
on the D trains’s filthy window as
winds whip winter and we wind
within the tunnel, where some will sleep.

routines…routines..
the winks..the nods..the passing clouds…

Will we make it rain or not…

this same routine that brings
both comfort and the angst

that I may not ever get to know you.

###

Clocked out

Of this new Spring scenario
this ones already clocked out
no leaves nor frilly pink pageantry
to proclaim of the season
embroiders her gutted out branches
that still reach for eternity

yet the ivy still clings
round her unashamed nakedness
and the songstress in scarlet
still perches, regardless

as I window watch wednesday
and wait for a poem to appear.

###

Stained glass blues

Diluted dawns
as etchings shift
from storm borne colors
collapsing now
on sills of vista views

phantom haunts
on boardwalk benches
where love in mood
watercolor hued
bloomed
then drowned
in tides’ interception

you wore my bouquet
and i captured you

where once we touched
now carved in essence
that panes in image
through stained glass blues

but your ink is potent
as i lean back
lulled far off
from lines of shore

where time won’t break

for now trapped, wrapped

i lay like rain…within
the waves of you.

###

Forgiving Winter

For weeks, I’d watch for them –
a hint, a slight intonation,
a cross-reference. Yet
the morning paints leaves
in 3D procession
no doubts, no mixed messages
no cryptic confusion

as Spring pinks the branch
and Winter’s forgiven.