for the water ...

these words have steeped for a while now 
in this vessel of november sky & the golden light of plowed fields
you are water-turquoise-cinque-terre-blue 
soothing, enveloping & sure
with the crystalline smell of first snow--icy apple-crisp
spiced with a lavender borealis & ginger zest
you allow the float

the surrender

the paintbox to swoop in & rise to song
present in love

forgiveness & laughter
you ride between wonder & sage-ness
taking prisoners wildly delighted in their felted chains
with a hand of grace & skill
mischievous

     you lure your sailors with guinness cake & a canvas of surprise
crafting connection with brush strokes of color-wheel possibility
holding us all closer to the light
shining & floating

water-turquoise-cinque-terre-blue

buffalo plaid

that dream again;
      cowboy bonfires
under novemeber moon's lament
laced & lingered
drifting
twisting to tumbleweeds
sweep me into the ashes of the day 
soothe the whimper of winds cold cold
touch the wool wet from promised snow
drifting
twisting
falling
    i curl into the smoke from your dreams
          dancing to the song of stars

when the moon kisses venus in capricorn

somewhere south of here

i became meadowlark'd
solitary sentinel perched on dawn's break
green grass

milo

cornsilk call
vastness unfolding
fog fills the frame tight
yellow-gray worshipper of sun's might
feathered flight

somewhere east of here

i became yours
tempered by time's cloud ponies
stars & blue snow line our scars
purple the bruise--fragile the thread
cradling regret to the end of the line
rising electric to golden wild thyme
we harvest the cost--we weigh the crime

somewhere west of here

i became water
polished aqua-sea-glass smooth
smelling of pearls

dust 

salt
tethered to the wind
upon tides high crest i climb
finding my way by polaris' shine
landing upon winter's shore intact & divine

somewhere north of here

i found me
of meadowlark feathered bravery
of love--replete with cracks of pocked light gleaming
of water opalescent mercury seeming
to journey the bridled heart thru trails hardness
breadcrumbed by darkness
Ah, what bliss this sharpness!

patchouli room

laying in wait

for the potion to take 

a tender light hold of your heart 

at six thousand feet 

the atmosphere's weak 

   and the lover abandons his part  
this grey morning gloom 

all the pain in this room 
high country's fragile fresh start 

patchouli room 

ghosts autumn tomb 

the fire fails to spark

love, please come to bed 

let's get naked instead
    of eviscerating our fractured cold stars 

masks are just futile 

but 
surrender is beautiful 

this room will treasure our scars 

what should have been ours 
dissolved to salt stars 

no embers spark to fire
on tongues sharp with dust
our demons breathe rust
expectations brambled brier
thru iced windows glaze

deer come to graze 

as

we surrender our bricked-up desire 

patchouli room 

'neath silvered frost moon
trust tumbles & falls to bed 

fear slips to the side 

solace abides
the potion was ours for the taking

golden day dawns
intimacy bonds
pine wraps around crisp bones
stolen locket of time
partings solitary rhymes
with words 

    the spell is breaking

November 14th

the morning leans open
mild as an April
yet here we sit in mid-November
it should be brisk--snap--brittle--chill

but it is this

this portal of spring stranded against the softest blue blue sky
pressed between the panes of summer & frost
forty-eight degrees and rising
riding
a rolling south breeze teasing leaves golden brown
everything is a golden brown ... amber hued
this
the blue jay circling the hackberry tree knows the truth
knows the magic of this brilliant morning
who knew there could be this shade of blue

mild as an April

full

corona full 
linen-stardust lined life 
still 
                      I find you 

in the scent of seasons 
amidst the change of colors

of wind ... and time 
in the luster of these hazy red-leaf'd days 

pools of light 

lie amidst the blue 

tangled in autumn's fire 

are we captor or captive?

isolated upon the hour hand 

i know nothing of how we got here 

except 

here is this 

season of us 

pressed into surrender by hourglass rides & fast cars

again & again we return to wonder 

return to the pools

of a crisp blue morning 

tethered to stars 

illumination

You steal beside me like an ochre whisper
phantom presence
softly erasing all negative space
blooming into darkness & the quiet burn of a million stars
"Make a strong line, don't sketch it out - be sure when you draw"

       you once told me
Be sure
 . . . drawn then
Held

      with a kiss that carries the weight & spin of this blue rock
exquisite
containing the 1949 worlds fair

the soundtrack to fantasia
& maybe the partridge family
ruby-throated hummingbirds land on my tongue & travel thru my soul
stealing all measure of hurt
weaving a patch of feathers

words & succulence over all wounds
skin is diffused & forgiven---effervescent
inconsequential to the heart of the matter
celebrated by the sureness of snow as it lies on my lips
direct & boldly waiting for the sureness of the melt
boreal & piercing
and sure 

stolen

thinking on the tumult of things ---
of wind & water rising
ripping at the ordinary
with flesh & spirit comprising
how do we find the moon-float
to forgive the gale its course
to part the sorrow from the sojourn
to quell the typhoon force
does the mud dream of purpose & green
do the waters still in regret
is courage tapped in the reach to care
as tropic day falls to sol's set
thinking 

    on the tumult of things
of wind & waters calm
finding the strength to hold & lean
as the weight becomes the psalm

at six o'clock

i took a glass of bourbon from the flame
and threw it to the moon

waning crescent 
39% luminous

spell cast
conjuring
conjuring
holdfast

there now
we are here
now
the other side of missing smells of snow forecast
pink twilight calling night
Joni playing looping unmoving
there now
we are here
now

there is no ache
no yearn
no burn
for that golden field

the thread remains
longing wanes

becoming a glass full of the smell of leaves burning
waiting to be sipped with long-eared owls & secrets
sharp
tine is wasting--waiting
can you taste it on the back of your tongue?
ahh ... you still taste me

throw it to the moon with a glass of bourbon at half past six

conjuring the other side of missing