Turned thirty and caught the chicken pox from my kids. Despite misery, The Muse brought me this.

Birds explode like stars
on this rainy day.
All the life stuff waves
skinny cold arms,
responding to the empty
caresses of the wind.

My love is here,
in the brown water
breaking ice,
in the thick slurry which
rises in the maples’ trunk.

The wind, blowing in circles
runs avid fingers
across my face and neck,
just as if I wasn’t covered
with scars,
just as if I haven’t
come again
to the beginning of
a newborn
just dead time.