.
mo(u)rning song
a grey veil
of fog
does not stop
the red, red cardinal
from singing
from the topmost branch
of the still-bare tree
planted by the echo
of ancestor
in the hedgerow
red-winged blackbirds
harmonize
crow vies with jay
together we begin
a new day
.
. . . . .
.
.
window
everything is clean
and the world
is awash
with disease
dis-ease
ill seas
i watch the sky
not certain why
searching for signs
or rhymes
or lines
pointing
in the right
direction
.
. . . . .
.
sanctity
(sanity)
holding on
to:
your hand
your love
your whisper of hope
possibility
tiny miracles
tomorrow
grey clouds
sunshine
orion high
in night’s dark sky
a robin
builds a nest
in the tree
outside my window
she is my
hero
.
. . . . .
.
grief
that instant
each morning
just as you
open
didn’t really
sleep well
eyes
that instant
each morning
before
you remember
.
that is the
moment
i cling to
.
. . . . .
.
the dog begs for food and i
warm my hands on a first cup of tea
it’s quiet here, in that pause
just between night and day
and the tulips grow
into all things unspoken
with pursed lips and
petty promises
i’m forever
falling for
because
dawn and now
are not the same thing
but when petals whisper
of hope and holler
who would i be
not
to listen?
.
.
.
what’s around
the next corner is always mystery
walk anyway
heart open
be a little naive
on occasion
grin at corny jokes
and let a child win
there are a million second chances
and there are no second chances
the path always starts at the beginning
but we never know where it ends
keep walking
sing
spread your arms wide
twirl in circles
be the fool
filled with wonder
be the fool
laugh like there’s no
tomorrow
.
.
i remember:
racing barefoot through wet grass at first light
northern lights glowing green above a broken picnic table
three moons on three nights
innocence and wonder (lost and reclaimed)
the sound of my own heart breaking
forgetting to look both ways
holding the feather of your hand in a sea of rough sheets
scattered petals on a bridge leading forward
the owlish sound of love
being here being there being here
remembering
.
.
buy me an election and i will sing a song
or crow at least
about
wide avenues and what we all deserve
as if deserving
was a right handed down
by a king in midas disguise
and you think that’s a joke
but i saw him once
touch a baby and just after that
a dark weapon
and neither one has the nerve
now to tarnish
and no one’s listening
no
one’s listening
there is music in every
hallway
but the lights are out
and we are all pretending
not to hear
we are all too busy
being busy
fighting
for the corner office
in a building
shaped by vaults
and steal
.
.
.
thanks to frost
we all have a path
mapped out in our minds
marked with the sign
of less taken
the squirrel doesn’t care
if you’ve been here before
he only knows
you’ve disturbed
his last nap
he’s marked anyway
with numbered days and
peanut offering
drowning out the sound
of fancy rodent
and you take possession
of land you’ve just stepped on
thinking mine and wild
and go away and
meanwhile the sky
is laughing
.
.
.
we spend our lives
learning the truth about love
how some days it shares
a pocket with hate
and there is never enough
or too much
or any amount just right
we get all twisted with
lust and false longing
in over our heads
thinking we must choose
there is never a choice
and it all seems so
brittle fragile
strong enough to kill us
strong enough to be there
on a day sixty years and
several winters from freedom
when a heart left hanging
stops beating and we know
we know
the (w)hole
we’ve fallen into
.
.
.
.
