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.

today

 
is this the day we feared
shadows have fallen
and taken us by surprise
though we saw the storm on the horizon
 
we were happy in the sun
carefree and senseless
drunk with the goodness and bounty
of the riches bestowed
 
is now the time when winter
comes roaring and the last
of our provisions are meted
out of time and warmth
 
is this the day we feared
are the wolves not at our door
but already feeding on our young

nothing but ripe apples

my garden is on this side of Eden,
neighbor
to the tree and angels and such
 
we nod as we go about our daily chores
weeding and mulching and limbing up
the stragglers growing against the fence
 
I wonder what all the fuss is about,
reading the news.
when we live this side of paradise
 
and there is nothing but ripe apples
and bittersweet vine
separating us
from each other

early afternoon in july

last summers evening 3

the fragility of the day holds fast
in the light of early afternoon
in a year heavy
with veiled feelings
in the eyes of passers by

wands of dried grasses
tasseled in gold
and magic
seem to wave over our worries

look how sparrows glean the field
how lilies gild the meadow
rain falls on us all,
the just and unjust,
criminal and saint

we are all alive
under this fragile light
of early afternoon
in july

hot july afternoon

July morning sun

sun is unfolding across my face
freckled and lined
by all those
ancient summers worn
by dust and seared green pines
fragrant sap sticky as preserved
amber of peaches
warm from the stove
stirred in the ancient black pot
of fore-mothers
and from their hands
this tongue
their song, sung in wordless
voice
murmuring incantations above
pots and babies and lovers bodies
asleep in the shade
of a hot July afternoon