just a night

no rumble of distant thunder. . .
or
lightening sparking to the west
no smell of rain in this galaxy scattering
no eleven twenty-five train either. . .
just the steady spiral dance of hours
taken & held
for a moment
part
of
you
moon 37% visible
part
of
everything
taken & held

fortunes tell

lay their hands in a row
palm down to the fire
and
I will tell all their secrets
love's lines furrowed deep & mired
to have loved
because of hands narrative line
hesitation of strength's tender-land
the catch
the release
of the
grasp
and
demand
love's journey fine

recogntion

colors shimmy
pulsing
waiting
re-arranging & quaking
with
expectation
tumbling with orchestral grace against the dark
held back by pensive indecision
waiting
never blending into champagne or alizarin crimson
unless you turn away
abstract waiting ,,,,,
held by hope
un-boxed
no sideshow line up here
shifting towards the azure mist ....
untamed by age
waiting inside for today

From The Plum Tree . . .

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peace out ,,,

waking

we strive and dive …
each of us bubble-wrapped against the crash and fail
until we crash and fail with the bloom-boom of cherry blossoms and sound of bluejays
and trumpeter swans
flailing and folded we struggle against the impasse, against the bones of our ancestral veins
finding the pierced circumference of our blueprint
feathered and tethered to the call of stars and meadowlarks
breathing, reaching
gasping and grasping
we rise to test the mettle and mud of our flesh, to stand alone
yet
so so much a part
of
that which crashed us, that which broke and bent us ….
we are of air and earth
striving and diving
to the ache and call of
May 

may day

cardinals bicker in the rain-drenched corners of this morning
startled by the malingering of winter
it is a perfect day to sit,
gathering the seasons to ones soul
like misbehaving marbles
smooth against my sternum
transparent in my hands
wind gusts in, bringing presence
waking the heartsease . . .
as the birds quiet to preform some ancient rite to
spring
and
sun