Witching Hour

It flows easily between two and three,
after bats have picked through early bird
specials at the street lamp. World and local
news has drifted downstream, plunged over
the information waterfall into a cesspool
of problems already overrunning its banks.
An average merlot sent bad vapors packing,
and parked the oak cask and light cherry
tones on the back of my tongue. The only
sound is that of  the moon moving west,
until an owl kicks from its pine perch, glides
above the street,  pulling a streamer of words
to be remembered and clicked onto a keyboard
before letters are swallowed by jasmine throats.

February, 2008

Parents

Icy winds converge at the poles
while calm hovers in the doldrums.
These are subject to shift and change,
like granite under Everest's snow
or flowing sands that scrub Atlantis.
Black eyes fade to yellow, return to tan,
deep scratches morph from scab to skin.
Voices will sprout fresh and tender
but rise in search of the scythe.
All places and things are subject
to the whim of unfinished business.

March, 2005

Last Visit Home

1
tree branches are thicker than the saplings that once clung to sandstone soil
but the tanagers are nowhere to be found

2
there was no one who remembered the recipe to make wine
so the elderberries were devoured by the birds

3
paths have been poisoned with ivy and hidden
beneath the canopy of queen anne's lace
the milkweed draws few monarchs

4
creek water still talks against stones and roots
hushes as it flows over moss
the words are no longer shallow

5
walnut husks turn black in the fall
and roll against xanthic hickory leaves
on the floor of the hollow

6
a cool breeze and yawning light
dip beneath the farthest ridge
the cardinal sleeps in the cherry
the blue jay roosts in the pine

 August, 2007