I have been stuck on poem #39 for the longest time. Maybe that's because I'm 39 years old and carry a psychological block to the number 40. In any case, it's done, and what follows is a new poem. I'm not even sure if this is a true aubade, but I'm going with it. OK, enough jibba jabba. Here it is.
Aubade for Angels
I can’t trust wind inside the house.
The metal blinds rattle their morning questions
for which I have no answers. In turn,
a bedroom door opens and closes at will,
in a conversation about departing.
The angels wait, round the clouds
at the edge of perception.
They stir a strange longing
that pushes us into recollection.
They reminds us of what is fleeting,
a crave inside a kiss,
intense and horrible
like a fireball, full of leaving
for the one who has left.
Wind, I wonder about your motives.