the smell of leaves burning

Can a hole become art 
     to become not a hole but something else 

transformed
full & complete 
refashioned with found objects:

that silver monopoly dog
blue bandanas

the sharp cut of sorrow
cornfields & meadowlarked loss
    autumn hued & weaved with blood-orange thread
to shuttered gasps & ooo's of admiration
can a hole be not a hole
patched with time & tender & song to mend it's fibrous fragility
looming itself into sunset ribbons of amber richness
who am I to love so well

    yet so wrong 
but not wrong
more like that hole
strangely

   ironically
      comes
the startling realization that it has shifted
quickened -- sharp
as
the forecasted boulder snow
self lies in the punched surrender to the puppet masters demand
listening & dancing to the bubbled needs of others
steadfastly refusing to howl at the moon & shine a light into the need
rake the leaves reverently into the
Hole

revolution is where 
in the crumpled pages of secret whispers & timeless sureness
in the ability to recognize strength in weakness
      and in the turquoise gleam of happy hanging in a thiefed reel
fighting for a heart-path is a wicked & quixotic endeavor
tempered by the accepted--righteous is not always so
loneliness carves it's own mask
as the struggle & pull of need creates 

red 

welcome the rhythm of this night in
bits of story & stars
dance & celebrate the patched hole
gather up copper

bronze & scarlet-dragon leaves
fire it up
trust the light

angels

dip me in the nectar of acorns
dusted with azure & green
pressed against night
do that
ten thousand times
and
return me home
to
you

dress me a kestrel who talks to ghosts
on every third tuesday
crimson--swirly & electric
pulsing
honey-dancing
absorbing words like apricot candies
left out as a temptation to delight
while outside it rains
cats & dogs & sorrow

my slip is made of perfume & tobacco
regal leafed

empty of self

talk to me of your dreams
walking alone in alleys as bullets zip too close to call it a win
talk to me ....

and I will listen 

night visible

willow-curly
trembled femininity pursued against the chipped & sullen gray
sun upside-down hedge-apple-cake
words buried under the red-yellows of fall
falling
falling
winter eager at the gate of white-evermore
as
the porcelain berry sings of
indigo-blue stillness
a dream of evening's new moon
willow-curly hanging moments

holes & stars

funny the things that slip
the name of that oil that goes in the apple salad
a burner left on high with butternut soup
the appointment tomorrow
the day of the week
the name of that guy
that you are there and i am here
funny the things

should my eyes hold hostage the last rays of sun
narrowing to a channel unremarkable
i will be ok
as i have read of Arabian nights, whales and Merlin
Gondor & white horses
i have beheld the magic of a grandson


should these legs refuse to move
no problem
as i have kicked the can
played red rover, red rover
and
run home from
school
as the wind
and a
palomino
even when broken & weary
they have served me well
through rivers & fields



if my breath should fade
no problem
i have stood on a mountain
breathing pine & love & rain
i have
laughed & kissed
sighed & cursed


but
if i
should not remember you
Ahh , , my darling that holds no gem of unraveled truth
for you are the golden arrow to the magnetic north
of
my everything 

there was a time

everything feels golden 

the memory 

the smell of air & wind 

dust & fragments of time ....

golden lie the fields 

golden the sun reflected upon the channels of river 

golden the sandbars 

bricks & bikes 

boys & day-dreams 

golden the sidewalks in spring 

     the streets in summer 

golden they lie against the robust blue sky 

every memory golden