Life With Horace

poetry & essays



the old moon sliver
hangs branch framed
in white pine pins
and looking out to scout the day
I know the birds will fly in soon
to perch and wait
for signals from some
fulcrum’s tip
then swoop to take their food
but now there is no color
in the rising sky
the light shape cold
and wrong
time almost shrunk
and hope waned with it
until a shoulder glance behind
reveals a spreading rose
across the pond and to the west
a foreglow gift of elder mornings
stoking up the sky

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early quiet

in the early dark
my thoughts come to life,
slowly staggering from
their nest of dreams
to touch my heart,
stretching catlike,
looking for a sun
that is not there yet,
zig zag from long habit,
free to catch whatever
crumbs of memory or hope
lie in their path,
slowly reaching knowledge
of the day, moments
just ahead, moving through
the sleeping house by rote,
not yet ready
for the coming meld,
welcoming the warmth
that movement brings,
anticipating coffee,
craving music, upping tempo,
now in gear, they join me
to rejoice in this new day,
remember gratitude