these last days

in this season
of bare trees and sepia toned landscape
when the world has gone mad

I can not help
but find beauty in these last days
each sun rise, a gift 
uncommon joy found in the light falling
on walls of faded pear and aquamarine

the bone structure of time
etched across the garden
the grace of winter in its quiet reflection
the freedom 

of loosing all constraints and ties
to whatever went before
until I am left
boundless, evergreen

Last Dog

 
I read
A Question of Time by Kathleen A. Dale
and wonder if he is Last Dog
this small warm body snuggled against my hip
safe and snoozing
after a days ordeal at the vet office
where injections were given
and instructions read
but there is no quick relief
for his suffering
he looks to me for comfort
and I weep in grief
for our parting
many years in the future
only a question of time

I was very moved by this poem posted by Rattle Magazine today,https://www.rattle.com/a-question-of-time-by-kathleen-a-dale/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+rattle%2FCNOS+%28Rattle%3A+Poetry+for+the+21st+Century%29

fence bed

laid bare, with jutting rocks exposed

only soil left, tilled and furrowed

detritus of years neglected

laced with vines and broken glass

bits of crockery and plastic wheels

of toy trucks long gone

vanquished by Spring’s lengthening hours

rake, shovel and glove

the fence bed will be softened by mulch

and hydrangeas

its poverty now enriched with sweat

and composted manure

stigmata

I dream of roses blooming

Red, so deeply perfumed,

heady with fragrant spice.

Their petals bleed across my chest,

stigmata of blood soft petals

pooling into rivers deep and wide, so wide

I lose the receding shore

until the ocean draws closer

and I inhale sticky salt air

filled with the scent of roses,

drowning pools of bloom

earth day 2021

 
 
the seeming randomness of so many things
makes it feel as though chaos and chance
are the only demi-gods in the revolving door
pitching ideas and sending up trial balloons
into ether and sky and hearts and minds
but we all see patterns of creation sparked
by vernal resurrection that can only be
a divine hand painting the hillsides in green
and delicate violet