Haunted

Haunted as surely as any fallow field

Where deaths occurred, millennia ago

By memories and things that once were

Possibilities discovered and taken away

Feelings wrapped around me like a

Spectral mist rising from the cold ground

Only to evaporate into bleak nothing yet

Lingering within, unable to fully dissipate

Haunted by music, by scenes, by small items

Strewn about my life and apartment and mind

Detritus of what is no longer and likely never to be

Herbal Vignette

Rubbing the herbs between my fingers still

As I watched you do a million times over

Smelling their very terroir, their essence

Purple basil, Greek oregano, red-veined sorel

Each one unique and flooding me with

Vibrant and vivid olfactory memory

Vignettes of our moments together 

The Breton Language

In the Breton language there exists a simple word, 

Grasz

It's meaning is anything but simple

Beautiful and encompassing a part of nature 

That has always been my favorite

The confluence of gray, green, and blue

For me, the color of a winter mountain stream

For the Bretons, a sea faring people

A group in tune with their environment 

It's the sea at that precise moment of color

Grasz

Simple but heart wrenching