the green wall is back
trees working hard through the night
birds seek their shelter
Category Archives: life up here
The Morgan
It could have been
a silver mercury portrait,
but a horse appeared
displacing stiff poses,
mane flying, neck muscles
bunched in effort,
galloping through
a glimpse of the past.
Audio: Read by the author.
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A marvelous photo of a Morgan mare by the photographer Deborah Glessner brought up the last two lines of the poem.
Haiku for a sunny Tuesday
he darts in and sips
she drinks at rest savoring
I welcome them back
A haiku for day 52
Small joy in bird song
Hold tight the reins of longing
Imagine us whole
Haiku for a sequestered Saturday
Plants starting from seed
Soil enriched by love
Summer will bring light
Haiku for a Thursday morning
Warmth in ersatz spring
Mountains tap their memories
There will be more snow
Haiku for a Hummingbird Thursday
And she was still here
Sipping nectar for her trip
End of summer gift
Audio: Read by the author.
Haiku for a Saturday afternoon
Dog rests on my foot
Gray rain and cooling to fall
Hummers are still here
Haiku for a sunny Friday
Few bugs eager dogs
Humid air stuck somewhere else
Out the door to woods
Connection
In song, music puts
its hands around my heart.
My words think tears
are a puddle to splash
through shoeless.
Color often stops my breath,
and I am held its willing
prisoner. A sudden memory
might need release.
Any of these call up joy
or tears, and I don’t mind.
When the signal comes
they might glide to me
in a waltz, or whirl up
on the skirts
of a wild mazurka.
Better yet, ride in
on the smoothness
of an alto sax.
Waiting
She pried my eye open,
brilliant Venus did, balanced
just above the pine spikes,
tired of waiting for me
to get on with dreaming.
A clear sky, meteors done,
still hours away from light.
Sleep brained, back to bed
with snoring dogs,
a dream of love waiting
across a bog, only reached
by floating stones,
until I balked and stepped
to solid ground.
She knew this one
was in the queue, and
did not want it buried
in the dreamless part of sleep,
but felt, and have me warned.
Late present
The moon brought me a gift
last night, before the
solstice rain moved in.
I left the crispness
of my northern woods
to walk the dew off grass again
with you. It’s late, the
house lights dark, the night
all midsummer lushness,
bell buoys ringing softly.
We know the way by feel
across the lawns and
down the hill to home,
but cannot pass the garden
with its flat topped walls.
We sit, shoulders touching,
stone still warm, and let our
breath find a rhythm together
after days apart. Then on
our way again, to soft
lamp light on varnished
wood, and pick up where
we were before the first
mosquito bit.
This morning I still feel
your hands, your skin on mine,
and smile, not caring.
Audio: Read by the author.
