Dark the wood aching for sun
So many conversations we have had
Derelicts of the times, both good and bad
You and I, cloaked in a nasty game of hide and seek
In this, warring courtyard, curves and cushions of fodder
In this, crumbled down streets, forks and flexure and fixtures
I bend to breathe
Hollow becomes my rasp
Sharp is my bath water
Obstructed is my throat…
I quarrel with the words I say
Naked and ravenous, I take to the sodden road
drained of your city ways
Moist the air that brings to light…cedar chips and all it delights
While cantankerous fowl sweet-talk to be gods of the sky
Eyes open wide while I release the shutters of months left behind
This passage of rites, fool hardy?
Nudged, I arise to this transformation of movement
So, when it stirs, I stir
When it darkens I lament
Placing a lid on every little thing –
Had this been what I have been waiting for?
Tans and brown…earth’s tone… in a tussle with last fall’s harvest…blowing, blowing, away.
Rock bed thirsty for nourishment’s flow.
god’s Third Eye could not see the creation that I hear.
Swallows and finches all singing for their pride.
Fringe elements at play when spring and winter collide.
To steal away from our barns…untended?
To tuck away the surface of things?
To forsake seasons in the midst of battle?
Only a January joke.
Hanging head low.
Such as a bully bull and a retiring bovine would.
Oh, if I could only be…
As lax, as relax can be.
Faults in the pavement…could they be any less obtuse?
Subtracting and murky with no roots to withstand the decay.
Unfortunately, I am not four-legged and constantly at ease with my indifference.
I lack luster amid the earth that surrounds.
In a calf’s eyes from what can be deduced…
Ambivalence, the grandest prize.
If only to witness the reflection of clouds in puddles passing by.
In the shadow of an October morn…
leaves are becoming…vagrants, radiant, fragrant.
So basic…a life…final justice in falling degrees.
I could wander endlessly, in the ages.
Admiring the poetry of a cloudy day.
Orange hues suffering…
thus, no room for beauty’s blue.
There is poetry in October’s showers.
Towering timbers telling stories…each and every hour.