Morning Meditations

1.

I sit at the table -
and observe my shadow
crystallize
into bulbs of translucent tears,
like rain, dangling
from my ceiling's underbelly.
Buckling down,
from the weight of a million streaks of sunlight.
The sun itself, a gold lozenge -
dissolving behind a sheet of clouds.

2. 

The magnolia tree,
waits for me, beside the strawberry field,
with blossoming flowers, magenta
and white, looking
like taxidermy butterflies frozen in a V.

I used to sit under its muscular branches 
and read aloud, poetry
from Claudia Emerson's Late Wife -
About a dead wife and her X-rays,
the remains of a broken marriage,
and a few artifacts of love.

3.

Every night, after darkness settles over you
like a woven blanket,
I tip toe in and out of our bedroom,
to muffle any sounds of my presence.
We are to be lovers, I thought.
We are to commit to the mitzvah
of matrimony, a few years from today.

But I have lost myself to Winter.
And what is left of me is a fevered shadow
of what used to be, an exoskeleton.