Another Autumn

The air cools.

Not biting
But nibbling with tiny teeth.

The county fair always brings the chill,
Dragging winter slowly behind like a carnival trailer.

Lights and music and carny barkers,
Rigged games,
The sizzle and smell of all things fried,
Prize winning animals,
Pies and amateur art and firemen showing off their big red truck.

Autumn arrives with a sideshow.

The trees settle in again,
Turning to the long sleep
With brilliant blazes of beauty.
Settling their own colored blankets at their own feet.
Stark limbs reach high into colder nights.

Fall floats in with a rain of leaves.

It’s the time of sweaters,
Thick socks,
Warm drinks and warm blankets.

The sunset of the turning year.

The air cools.

Hidden Moon

Clouds cover the moon tonight.

Grey shrouds
Over slate.

A luminescent darkness.

Borrowed light from borrowed light.

The sky has weight tonight.

Weight upon the eyes.
Tangible weight upon the thoughts,
Upon the memory of infinite starlit skies.

Strangely, I rise up.

I stand.

I am lifted past the weight.

The shroud wrapped sky
Reminds me
Of the moon
Hidden just behind.

Here at the Ocean

Here is the ocean,
Here the sand,
Here the sea oats and beach elder,
The horseweed and evening primrose,
Here the live oak, the red bay, the wax myrtle.

Here the land-ward breath of the world blowing.

I am filled beyond myself.

Each breath draws in all the world’s winds.
Each heartbeat drives the tide and current.
The reaching sea holds every thought and impulse I’ve had
And will have.

The past rises around me,
Days gone with the lives that lived them,
And days to come with those coming lives,
Mix in the shadows of the short and twisted forests and
The pulse of the tide.

The eternal and the infinite
Resound in my ears,
Respire in my nose,
Brush my skin.

I am a shadow here,
Resting for my moment.


Butterfly hearts





Like a butterfly in a storm,

A house founded on sand,


Our hearts are open

To destruction.


We are wind-tossed creatures.


As constant as a single ocean wave.




A single shift,





And we spin, flailing,

Out of control.


Our best heart

Carved by change and fear

To be our worst heart.


A villain is a hero with nothing to hold but fear.



Where do we stand when the ground shifts?


Where is our refuge when the storm rages?


For me?


On the rock.


In the heart of the master of storms.





To the next

To the next

To the next.



Time cascades,


An endless waterfall of moments

Poured out.


An offering of eternity

poured out on me,

from me.


I ride through the ticks

Of creation,


Sliding through the tocks

of existence


for an endless single moment,

The eternal audience,

The singular frozen moment of the dance.



Time is a word.

Each moment is a word.

A word is a boundaried crystallization of the whole of a thing.



I can’t see the river.


I can only see that part of the river that sweeps me on.


On to the next.

On to the next.

Rusty Bones

My bones are slightly rusty,

Like the Tin Man on day two of his long wait.

Every day starts with a creaking rise from the bed.
Muscles flex and bones groan.
Gradually, my own oils flow to fill the worn gaps.

The body works,

The mind forgets,

(intentional forgetting, I’m sure)

I move down the hill of the day until,

At the bottom,

I fall back into my waiting bed
To accrete a new layer of rust.


Bridge over river.

Dark water under dark sky.

Street lamps at either end,

A hazed moon above

Offer silver light and dancing shadows

As dark trees shift slowly in the faintest breeze.


A woman walks across,

Black skin in a long white dress.

Matronly hips sway easily,

The dress hem sweeps ten inches above the concrete,

The slow dance of here to there

On every early summer night

From now to far back then.


The air soft and warm as a kiss.



Bridge over river.


Dark water under a dark sky.