Frame

If true my words for love were made a frame,
How pretty could once loves redrawn for view
hang free—the happiness that bears my name
put to a sturdy ash enclosure, stained sky blue.
And if my words are blue, then white my theme,
White whole and innocent: that should I fall
I will to all the world unconscious seem;
caught was I in that purest siren call.
But white is just as empty as it's pure
And well I know in me the feelings lie
Love is to less enjoy and more endure—
a cloud as it is to my word-made-sky.
If words were frame, they'd fall to just disuse
For love alone I am poor love's recluse.

Heights

There are days I am afraid of heights
and this doesn't have to be one:
the view spreads far beyond the mountain,
(the trees grow green, but never escape the dirt)
and keeping confidence is only an axiom away
If one can't be sure of one's own steps, what can one be sure of?

I was a boy who tripped over his two feet
So when the arrows and slings came my way, I stumbled.
In counting the delicate balance of my days,
I come up short.

But days go on, and days are not the same.
And safe footing may have found me once more,
though I know how frail this kind of confidence is.
Still, I tell myself:
There are days I am afraid of heights,
and this doesn't have to be one—
If today I can stand here on mountaintops, and be unafraid to fall,
tomorrow I can stand again, and this time stand it all.