Its not the weight but how you carry it-
loaded onto your back
like a pack mule
or ahead of you
wheel barrowing down the lane.
it’s more how you think and feel
all manner of thoughts and feelings-
how your tongue feels
as you voice
those longings and fears
or maybe how your lips part
when you sing
a love song.
Or maybe it’s just that everything we think is heavy
is just as light as a feather.
Rising balloons tied to a string
or tied to your heart
maybe you are light hearted
and drawn to whimsy and mirth
or maybe glum and in need of a digestif
or a good hearty pat on the back.
Maybe you are light on your feet,
dancing up a storm
or a jig or a pas de deux,
balancing between sky and earth.
Its all a balancing act, you know.
We are not merely players on a stage
following the gypsy caravan
with all our worldly goods
tucked into our backpacks
or pushed along in our barrows-
its all in how you carry it.
Pale and threaded,
the needles nest in rough patches
releasing the scent, resinous
of pine forests
and her true home.
Tall trees stand
in her dreams, waking
and sleeping. I brush
the leaves from her hair.
I nest my heart in clouds,
its hollow sound echoing
with the song of autumn
Exultation in their songs,
jubilant in their wildness,
the geese rise in thunderous union,
wings ready for the north winds call.
Rise up, they shout,
and spread your wings-
autumn is here and winter approaches.
Give into the joy of wind
and the rush of feathers in flight.
threading the day
skeins of russet, apple yellow,
weaving warp to weft
each vibrant color added
as the leaves
Walking across scattered pages,
I hear the rustle of fallen leaves,
Glimpses of diaried days and handwritten weeks,
Calendar months torn until the fall,
Pages left to read the months past
With years drifting in the October wind.
I climb thru the trees along the ridge,
Surrounded by gold and bronze-
Iron cold days ahead
Soon wreathed in silver and faded memories.
Autumn has come to the woods
And autumn has come to me.
Tiny stitched lines of geography sewn
into flesh and muscle,
needled from silken to coarseness,
fragile to enduring.
Fabrics woven into years of patchworked life,
tattered and torn,
to be mended
Weary threads continue to unravel
to be caught up again
by sharp silver needles,
darning the gaps,
strengthening the ties,
binding the thoughtless wounds,
the intimate grief.
Steady hands fold the hems,
straight and narrow,
to be cut through
and reworked into patterns
of spring to summer
Each moment embroidered
to its best possible telling
as the pattern emerges
from faded cloth.
Seeing the mythologies explained
in pieced remnant and scrap,
we fold its story around us,
holding on tight against the cold.
It is believed that one may get rid of bad luck by dropping a copper penny on the ground. The bad luck will go with the coin and be acquired by the next person to pick it up
Its not the copper in the veins of the land but the hand that holds the redeeming cents since it no longer scents the air with that just before lightning smell, ozone fired kiln of oxygen/ hydrogen/ carbon, sweating against the blue of the sky, the taste of blood on the tongue.
Put the pennies over my eyes and let me rest.
The coins feel cold against my palm,
Their tarnished light gleams silver
And gold on pale skin,
Heaviness pulls me down
Until all I can do is hold
The thought of you
Against my breast
The leaves turn to yellow and gold
Falling into the silvered season.
Copper beeches drift in the north wind,
Drawing the sound of autumn with it,
Casting golden coins before the fall.