Tuesday, March 29, 2016

to return



in the doldrums of late winter 
there are no words
tricky illusive basterds .... 
they are nowhere
well, of course ... 
they're somewhere 
but not 
here
.... falling from these fingertips 
in a threaded tumble 
fluid & tangible 
as breath 
or rain
no 
there is no stream of tale or poem 
no manic observation 
or sensation to document 
upon a back of a magazine or captured whiteness 
my words have taken a holiday 
caught the two in the morning train 
hopped a flight 
to a secluded island off the Scottish coast 
of sea & cliff
heather &  heath 
here .... 
they are at peace 
in a quaint white cottage with a good fire, tea & cozy beds 
night skies are domed with the stars of a thousand songs 
and the sun teases warmth 
but delivers ease away from my hubristic juggled use 
away from the liquid pour & crafted will of my ordinary hours 
but ...
Spring is waking 
bringing green to the red bark of the japanese maple 
as hyancynith & crocus peek up from 
the dried straw-colored winter debris 
cranes are returning to the river 
today in the garden, 
Raised beds were cleaned 
dust & whiteness raked across the earth 
tidying & bending 
reaching & striving 
as the sun shone 
bright & brilliant upon my face 




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