the apple tree has given up its leaves
sightlines to the treescape skyline
of the mountain ridge are visible again
skeleton beauty skirting stripped down
lilac oak and beech, embracing stolid
pine arms, needles feathering
this morning’s straggler sun
a wedge of brown and gray and light
this small world peaceful
waiting for the snow
__________________________
this is one of those mornings when the contrast between the world outside my kitchen window and places of violence and sorrow is very stark. I am grateful for this peace, even as I mourn another shattered night and pray for France.
It turns out that I do have a muse. His name is Horace (Horrie) and he is my shadow, fetcher of slippers, foot warmer, and writing companion. A smart three year old black lab, he knows I am his work, is pretty sure that if I go out he should come along, and much of the time he does.
unaccustomed light beams up from my small pond
a gift I grudge our downstream beaver cadre,
shermanesque repurposers of woods and mud
whose path had thinned the eastern trees
this morning’s sight was not the sliver moon
pendant under brilliant venus
that had called to me in bed
but dawn with spikes of leafless trees
in shadowed counterpoint
the possibility of future treats looms large
even as my mind resists this change
reflected moons and shooting stars
crusted ice or waves of snow
morse code tracks from there to here
so as I fight to deconstruct
the engineering feat that threatens
to engulf beloved trees
I whisper thanks for fallout gifts
and pray that what comes next is peace
___________________________________________________
the back boundary of my land is a named brook, with a small seasonal pondlet cum mudhole, which was quickly becoming a full on pond by the time I realized what was happening at the end of this summer. beavers are amazing engineers, cross layering branches and twigs to make their dams, and excavating existing banks for mud to wall new water in. taking all this down is not easy, and I was quite sad about having to do it, until I discovered that there was no lodge out back but only “land grooming” for future expansion. I suspect this is merely the latest skirmish between the beavers and the owners of this house since it was built in 1796.
moon’s afterglow fades
star shapes sink into the trees
Orion still hunts
_____________________
living at the foot of a mountain means a casual glance outside is usually framed by tall pines, or stars dipping below the horizon just above the house. the seasonal sky shift is here, with winter favorites like Orion returning. the night sky has been clear most nights, and the stars have been bright in spite of the recent full moon.
with all its skin removed
and moonstone lotus arms pulled back
the onion has no center
only tear provoking sharpness
seeping from its pores
but you and I have hearts
that feed our souls and break sometimes
laid bare in throes of love
or simply listening to the echoes
of a whispered thought
a memory of longing sweeping back
to fan regret at loss
we wear our years like onion skin
the proof of who we were opaque
of how we danced or soared
looked at the world from eyes that saw
time infinite us invincible
too quick to jump into the flow
of forces greater than our will
to hold them back
where war or danger
grabbed us by the throat and shook
tossing what was left aside
or living tamer slower lives
bumps and buffets taken as they came
no matter what our start
we all arrive at later’s trailhead
wondering where our eagerness and joy have fled
energies no longer at our ready beck
resignation sometimes held at bay
and yet our beating core
holds all of it on layaway
to draw on if we can
so when I lie with moonlight
shadows raked across my skin
and you reach out with forge hot hands
time falls away leaving elemental us
certain only of this moment
and its gift
edges after frost
silver rims the still green leaf
tree crowns lit by sun
_________________________
we have had our first truly cold nights. things are dying back. the sun comes up later over the mountain arm, and light proceeds down from the tree tops. today I start feeding the birds again.
like random bursts of color
or drought licked leaves
my transformation waltzes slowly
through the thickets of impatience
skirting good intentions
wanting every item on my
inner laundry list of psychic tweaks
checked off in double time
to quit the job of Tantalus’ understudy
reaching for the ease I see in others
never tongue tied in the light
of those whose minds and gifts
can freeze me in my tracks
as adolescent echoes chase me down
my blurted words so many zombie zits,
I crave deliverance from this dread
to stamp distortion into weightlessness
and see it float away, swept on by
migrant wings that set me flying too
driving south with dogs and moon
my sole companions
through a world now shuttered, faceless
not quite dead, a piece of time
between the dregs of night wound down
and any thought of lighted day
no nameless lurkers crowding thoughts
as unaccustomed full face brightness
pushes back those waves of menace
rushing from the black hole dark
until their clinging dread recedes
then trickles off the shouldered road and trees
fades dark blank glass and shadowed cars
to question marks, a thousand lives imagined
in the moments we pass by
my honor guard lies nose to tail
the comfort of their smell and noisy dreams
has wrapped my shoulders well against the chill
and we move on
_____________________________
we all know this time of night, and driving through it in the light of a full moon changes everything.
it starts again where it left off
no steady stream of cogent thought
but snips of words implied
and whuffing breath upon my hair
a toss of eyes, soft nosing in my hand
fingered lips come for their gift
and stay to glean the remnant juice
I stand between them
under arching heads and necks
unafraid and shivering with joy
our steps retrace
an imprint starmap dance
away from stepping heavy hoof
and back, to look up
into eyes that hold infinity
_________________________
for Pamela Moshimer Rickenbach, Mithra and Brian, and the horses of Blue Star Equitation.
numbers (have) never mattered
no importance given,
celebration while rome danced
the very thing,
my road stretched out ahead
endless to the next rise.
today I pause to count
and though the exit sign
is out of sight and mind
I sense it up ahead.
memo to the fates
you are heard and understood,
but while
music is in my blood
and on my tongue,
words spring from my hand
to shout upon the page,
light and color unshutter joy,
there is love to fill me up
and to return without reserve,
my legs strive to scale the heights
and cover distance yet again,
the tendrils of my soul
reach out to wetlands
and woodland heartbeats
in the company of birdsong,
my flesh can still be
branded by a lover’s hand
to summon undiminished ecstasy,
why then, oh yes
I am most certainly alive,
not just living, treading time
but riding it full throttle
to the very end
walking from
machine cooled dullness
into hot sunlight,
mid July high noon
even if I could
there is no avoiding
this cloak of
fecund summer air
settling on my skin,
the scald of
gentle lover’s fingers
prompt me to accept
their gift, and dance
in the heat of the day
flashes in the lilacs
after days of rain
semaphores of water drops
silent signals
from the master singers
are they warnings of
our imminent arrival
at the cliff’s edge
or waves of vibrant
ecstasy sent
to heal a broken heart
Life With Horace 