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
