Whispers
fall too softly . . .
the half-shadowed moon sets
and we fail again, your last words
trailing.
A shell
at ocean's edge, where doubt meets hope;
from its folds and hollows
the ancient sea
calling.

Without a Hint of Sun

Grayness
overtakes spring;
his last words hang heavy.
The sigh of a thousand dew-damp
flowers.