pb&js

they’re not the cottonwoods

or live oaks from my childhood

climbing trees and leafy hideaways

where library books

and pb&js were squirreled away

on long summer days


no they are trees unfamiliar to me

standing watch over my doorway

in the last home of my life

where I will spend long summer days

with books and pb&js

squirreled away in their shade

not cold but not warm

Even though I no longer like the cold weather, for some reason my body is missing the frigid walks along the waters edge. The north wind slicing through layers and layers of sweaters and scarves and jackets like a very cold butter knife. And I seem to be expecting the fog to settle in and gray skies to be all I see except here, its sunny and not cold but dont get me wrong its not warm.

Its the blue skies so far that have me stunned in a good way because that fog would get in my mind and cover my eyes and my mouth until I was suffocated in its grieving heartless grayness.

I can live with not cold but not warm and the blue sky can visit my morning window all it wants cause this might be the last place I live and I will gladly die here in the blue skyness of it all.

November Morning

Its not withstanding the urgency
of breath and feeling,
molding into those things which
we say and do within our masks,
hiding in each moment.
But there are times,
when letting guards down,
we recognize our real faces
and wings unfurl
in the cold light of a November morning.
Wedge of deep silver
shadowed against the breast
of stone and water
opening isthmus arms
crux of land and sky
embracing water, earth deep,
bronze and gold, russet, indigo.
And leaving the warmth of bed and nights embrace,
I stretch toward the dark dawn,
aware of all mortality and grace
and the singular thought of ones life.
This too shall pass and like the meadow grasses
separating grain from chaff,
my soul will someday join the autumn wind
and sing shining into the cold morning.