done

stillness underneath the white birch
feathered creature blue & grim
aura of sun fierce
captured within

offered as a gift--the question hangs
random relevance veiled
sun--ferris wheels overhead
the answer burns to a tale

coming undone
the white birch calls
where a downy sacrifice bleeds blue
as remembrance
fragile as campanula
something is given
fledged innocence grieved & glistened

of a January morning

Morning is promised here;
tucked in the
bitter-cold corners of darkness lingering
stillness beguiling in its enchantment
the Wolf Moon of the Western sky now soft
veiled by night's arch
and
the condensation of everything
darkness & chill press against me
from every direction
yet how can I leave this wondrous hour
so ancient this black before the sun

a rabbit suddenly appears to my right
a shadowed flutter
furred & furtive
as enthralled as I am ... 

holding this promise of day 

of a january afternoon

Gray;

a secret carried
dusty & forgotten
yet wrapped in the thinnest gauze of cloud linen
folded and folded once again upon itself
dark corners becoming shadow-velvet
gray is intangible
ethereal in her personality & along her edges
does she portend good or evil?
she is but a fog of paused belief
exquisitely laced along lines delicate & tarnished
gray is comfort tucked into Winter's stark whiteness
woolen naps with old books and promises timed to the moon
few are allowed to touch gray
understand her 

or
know the scent of ice--minted & melting

It was

Honeysuckle'd Steel Velvet Train
steamed--primed
tasting of bark and vine
moist earth rising to fill my nostrils 

Winter season of this ancient Sun

I
could
not
look too long
or I would turn to
stone--

Pink Georgia Marble
captured by the Apollo Sun
as
umbered words
conduct
this
bold tango
taming
dragons

fear

fools

and

halcyon fields

melting-mending-bending
skin to skin
turning night into neon
straw to gold
gold to moon  

rising riding
this
Honeysuckle'd
Steel Velvet Train

Prairie

There is an openness here
spacious possibility riding on the morning's attempt at dawn
fog and cloud-cover occlude the promise
Sun
somewhere east of the Mississippi...
smug fucker
teasing with cosmic certainty that Spring & warmth will come
after the cranes come
rivers iced in flow & fury gray
sounds tempered against this silver sky
snap-crystal chill of day
this too shall pass
swept up with stars
and the dust of dreams

suspension

the branch of the towering hackberry hangs there
suspended against the January wind
weighted by last night's fog that came on fast
and
thick thick
white-silver frosting enchanting the somber colors of winter
cut-with-a-knife fog
french-lieutenant's-woman fog
weaving timeless spells of holding
and forgiveness
the branch trembles & boils in a wind suddenly stronger
suddenly sure of trajectory
and forecast
pressed between white sky and brown earth

 suspended...
too warm for fog's coat of silver-white
breathing in
becoming this day
holding
forgiving

fog thick morning

Oh winter, ice-sharp throated traveler

wrapped

in

paper stories of pioneers and mariners
tucked tightly under the felted arm of a northern wolf
with antlers of borealis and thundersnow

Ruby cloaked migration to warmer climes
tricked by the
paltry
and
powerful forecast
of this winter fog

Pace measured
by teaspoons of brilliant amber birch
seed to branch to blackwing-feathered things rising to the lingering frost veiled moon

shadows hide my secret passage
promised to no one

Well then
softly
softly
bring me pieces of your broken apology
Softly
softly
bring me to the foot
of
the gnarled tree where butterscotch owls reside hunting small stone gods

Oh
Winter!
Of sails and plains--of storms;
apple-pressed tales wait

No song sung, no dainty dance done
upon the ice of moonlight

Pass, pause
press on to spark
into
a thousand blue-violet dreams
of deep-set winter wonder's weight

Oh Winter!

walls

if I press myself between the fern and the lemon verbena
petticoated & folded to linen white
measured in fragrance of rose gimlet
well, if I did press myself there
so arched & tight
would there be a marigold trace .... a ink orb of light?
hallway forested in fields of wool & water
rippling pink
smell that?
a trace of cigar, sunlight & 1967
a mirror taffeta-gilded
reflecting the paper-white hesitation of the day's polished redemption

Ag nocturne #437

i come away disheveled
tangled
starkly--
a sparrow woke from lunar caustic slumber

frost
upon feathers--crystalline--foreign
snap of dawn
sudden
dangerous
unplanted
lost against the slice of moon
the afterglow of other worlds
other rooms
where i am whole
robust and fluid

warm
warmed
warming

still this breath
still this body rosy-scarred
this mind on fire

traveling lingers in the arched transformation
of hollow bones
light becomes the path
the path becomes home

feathers smooth to the warming
the silver return
of morning

but she didn't

she should have kept to the flowers and sunshine
ignored the tangled overgrown vines
but she didn't
should have trusted the golden
should have savored the summers
loved her mother
but she didn't

she should have woken up on Saturday--canceled the whole thing
should have met him at the movie when she said she would
but she didn't
should have taken the ticket and left the farm
should have tilted the windmill and left at sunrise
(no surprise)
she didn't

she should have kept looking at the possible
not settling for the optional
should have kissed him longer
should have cleared the path
settled the score
she should have fought a little bit more
but she didn't

what you are waiting for--
time is blue
and vastness awaits you
what are you waiting for
what are you waiting for

she should have picked up the coffee
tidied the house
tendered the dogs, the fear, the doubt
she should have sighed deeply and done the expected
shelved the stars and this life accepted
but she didn't ...