*Snow Dreams*
Morning Glories,
Tendril-twined to
Everything within their reach,
Trumpet love’s invitation
To each passing moth:
Come sweet-away the day.
Sunshine blush
On petal and wing…
Waking, slowly waking….
It’s still snowing,
Wind still blowing.
Time for more wood
In the stove.
Smoke goes tendril-twining
To the sky.
Coldwind glow
On face and hands…
Sleepy, slowly getting sleepy….
*White Oak Prayer*
The woodstove warmed me today
On a day of cold rain and snow.
Anticipating a long cold,
I brought in more wood
And had a second pleasure:
The smell of the smoke in the air.
A wood fire will warm you twice,
So it is said: once when gathered,
Again when burned.
But what about when
You remember the smoke
On a day with no fire?
Bury my ashes ‘neath the White Oak tree
So that I may become one (man in tree),
So that one day, someone
Will burn us, breathe us in,
And we’ll go on to warm again,
Amen.
*Grey*
Grey
Sky and spirit:
The color
Is running
Through my veins
After rain, rain, rain.
Grey,
Too cold,
Too windy,
Too wet.
Grey
Is the color of
The Hunger Moon,
But the clouds
Stayed home afraid
For one black night.
*What Matters*
As I drove on a familiar road
I remembered when
There were no homes,
When there were no lights,
When farm, fox and forest
Ran on to nearly the horizon,
Or, at least as far as you could see.
When it becomes their time,
The next generation will remember
When there were only houses here,
Snug with their lawns,
Safe under their lights,
But then aware of some same change
As I feel now.
Through it all,
Through all the changes
To the surface,
And to those on the surface,
The earth was always there,
Always the same
As it withstands our changes.
It’s like putting on a new shirt,
This once-a-generation
Re-decoration of our place.
What we do doesn’t really change a thing,
In time and on earth
We live the lives of annoying gnats
Of little real consequence.
*Risings*
A time-dusty family photo
Reveals in camera-stunned stares
Their fears,
Their desires,
Their anxieties,
Their hopes.
They, here in a foreign land,
Travelled with a dream
From countries unknown now
To a country unknown to them then…
Except for that dream rising.
Three generations:
Great, Grand and Parent,
I too, rise, am re-born from this photo
Along with them,
Beginnings are what I see,
Unsure, frightening, but begun.
*Goodbye*
Goodbye, goodbye
Old friend,
It’s your time to pass over.
I’ll think of you often,
Think of you fondly
As I gradually grow away.
You taught cold truths
With warm heart.
You taught me well.
Goodbye sharp-edged blue skies,
Goodbye spear-pointed winds,
Goodbye white night-storms,
Goodbye dear Winter.
*Haiku Triplet*
Night’s dark mystery’s
Imagination on fire:
Sweet poetic muse.
The moon’s a button
On night’s black velvet vest,
Undress night gently.
With dear beloved night,
I walked starred paths… hand-in-hand
Toward morning’s marriage.
*Mama*
Her strands of auburn hair
Floated
As if blowing in the wind.
Her slender white fingers
Outstretched
As if to hold onto the ripples.
Her hazel-colored eyes
Tearless now
Will see no more.
Her hair will never flow in the wind,
Her fingers will never again meet mine,
Her eyes will see no more, no more.
*Next Generation*
Time’s effect is seen
As Spring warms,
As the wheat heads swell.
It’s the story we know
Because we are the wheat, too,
Steadily filling toward maturity.
We’ve grown
As our days warmed:
Teachers, the sun, they nourished us.
Now it’s time
To sow the our seed: our wisdom,
To plant for the next season.
Soon enough,
It’ll be time
For the harvest.
*As Sirius Smiles*
When the Dog Star comes home
We growl toward hotter days,
Noisier days,
When slumbering noisemakers
Warm and wake.
We smile toward ripening days, too.
Days of the tart raspberry,
The sweet tomato,
As Sirius
Smiles down on our day.
*Dogs Under Porches*
The dog days are upon us
Like the moisture on our brow
That trickles down our face;
We endure both.
We endure too,
The sun as it trickles
Across the sky more slowly
As the temperature climbs.
All pant out the same song:
Cool relief, Cool relief,
Please send cool relief,
Even the sleeping dogs dream of winter.
*Into the Unknown*
How precious is the flower
About to bloom,
It is still the mystery.
How delicious is the flavor
That lives in the mind
And not yet on the lips.
How beautiful is the scape
That you imagine
Long before it is seen.
How dear is the love
Never held,
But cherished more every day.
*What Is Written*
Whether with paper and pen
Or with black print on white screens,
When it is time to write,
The words have always come.
I’ll tell you a secret:
Someone whispers the words
Into my ear,
The words aren’t really mine!
When I talk of the moon,
And the door she opens
To lovers,
When I talk of the rains
Washing clean
Our doubts and fear,
When I talk of the wind
Stirring desire,
Stirring the heart,
It’s not me.
I lay no claim
To the elegance
Of such an idea.
I am only the scribe.
Fly with me on gentle breezes
Through clouds,
Through showers.
Clear our eyes as we fly
Toward love’s shining door.
See?
*Reapers*
Amid the clatter of harvesters
Turning down the blanket
Of corn,
There arises a sweet smell
Of the kernel’s sugary-starch
Warmed by the scythe-knives
Of the cutter,
Then there comes the sour note
Of fermenting green stems,
Then. all that there is left
Is the sadness
Of an empty field.
*The End of the Line*
For the briefest moment,
I was first.
Then quickly, second, third…
Until the number didn’t matter
To anyone (if it ever did).
Generations come, go,
Slip quietly away until
Once again I’ll be at the front
Of the line,
Going or coming…
What does it matter?
*Three 4+1s… I Mean*
From my indian summer vantage,
Swinging in a hammock between two trees,
I awoke (I awoke figuratively, I mean)
To autumn coming.
Leaves floated down upon me.
———-
During the first rain in three weeks,
I sat in the porch rocking chair,
Studying (letting my mind roam, I mean)
A late-season spider.
Wind bounces it on a web trampoline.
———-
You can stand tonight and look at the acres,
Beans not quite ready for harvest
Glow (they are eerily luminous, I mean),
With a magical light.
Night is alive with false foxfire.
*Communion*
Golden leaf patens float to the ground
All around me,
Once manna, their job feeding the trees
Is now done.
Discarded, each of these god-miracles
Is sloughed away,
Wind-beaten, bug-eaten litter:
Now, just colorful trash.
But trash turns golden
When well whisked
With the laughter of tumbling children.
Here’s autumn’s communion.
*The Gifts*
The sun
This morning
Burnished trees.
The cold morning
Iced ponds,
Crystallized floating leaves.
The blue sky,
An autumn canvas,
Art in the hawk’s flight.
*At the End of the Year*
Darker were the nights,
Shorter were the days
As Winter
Neared.
Grayer were our thoughts,
Sadder our spirits
As loss emptied our hearts
As days counted down.
On the darkest night of the year
It became clear
That in that night
There was the most hope.