Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Thursday, October 4, 2012

A Lost Bit of Wind (from the journal)

The skinny deer
ate catbird’s pokeberries,
the ones she could reach.  9-4-12

Pear’s first rusty leaves
move like wands.  Will they conjure
crisp days?  9-4-12

Metallic trips, trills
in the poke,
in the crab apple. 
It’s wren speaking Carolina.  9-5-12

The last wood poppies
melt into the dry ground
as golden as their spring blossoms.  9-5-12

Falling through the gray day
hickory’s orange
teardrops.  9-6-12

Quiet now,
the cinnamon wren.
Her friends speak for her.  9-10-12

In the woods,
in the one spot of sun,
redbird hunkers down
on the crab apple branch,
warming.  9-10-12

A cold morning
without sound.
The crickets have slept in.   9-11-12

The old sadness is still sad.
A drop of blood on paper.
The dust, the dry dust.  9-11-12

From the depths of the shiny pokeberries,
the soft voice of catbird
lost in thought.  9-12-12

The ant on the black rim
of the glass table suddenly stands up,
listens for a heartbeat, changes direction.
Falling acorns.  9-12-12

As dark as dusk
catbird rests on the purple poke.
A single word.  9-13-12

From deer’s pathway
the honeysuckle leaves wave.
A lost bit of wind.  9-17-12

Shiny in the rain
the dance of colors—
yellow spicebush,
red pear,
purple dogwood.
Green waves goodbye.  9-18-12

Calendar Rose

The long road to the old city
to sort prints,
gaze at the river,
eat broccoli soup with
an old friend,
stacking towers
of the flower
of many roses.  9-19-12

Even the tiny grasshoppers
in their first instar
tingle the morning.  9-22-12

A small hole
in the woods left by leaf fall.
The season of light is beginning.  9-24-12

Coming outside,
the periphery of senses expands
to the horizon.  Wren speaks.
Catbird peeks from the honeysuckle,
eye to eye with me,
center to center.  9-26-12

Our walk up from Terraset
we step over the fallen wild persimmons,
translucent dark yellow globes, the
broken ones smelling like autumn.  9-26-12

Against poke’s maroon shanks,
the graceful leaves lighten
and yellow.  9-27-2

In the cold morning
the wood is measurably
yellower.  9-29-12

Self-determination in a stick bug.
He would not be moved out of the
path of the school bus, except by his
own six legs.  9-29-12