Poetry

I had booked your
Inside passage,
Billed as having
Window and doors,
Sunlight and balconies
With views.
Rolling clouds might
Gather across the
Trackless waves,
Overtake and threaten
To push us windward,
But they would pass.
Your inside passage became
A maze,
Fun house mirrors,
Dead ends,
And lies.
I left you sitting
On your fence,
Muttering something
About independence,
And self-reliance,
And failure.
Time has left you
Bow-legged,
Perched on your fence
In disillusionment,
Muttering something about
Impending death, regrets,
And reconciliation.
I have gathered my
Army,
We circle as always,
Gazing through windows,
And doors,
Together.

A coy moon
Slips behind
The veil,
Moved by
hands unseen.
Slowly it sinks
Toward the trailing
Edge of the night,
A traveler set
To a singular groove.
The newly fallen
Blanket of snow
Gets creased and
Battered by
The morning rush,
Most oblivious to
The magic in the sky.
Silently I watch,
Migrating through
Fox tracks left
In the unmasked moonlight.
The rosy edges slide
Past the horizon,
Just as the sun breaks
It’s opposite.

I woke up
Upside down.
A twist of
Blankets and
Half-off socks.
Opening my eyes
Didn’t make “them”
Disappear.
In my dream they were many,
Probing with questions,
Insisting on answers
That didn’t exist
In either time or
Space.
The fullness of the
Moon lights my way
To feet on the floor.
Your answers will never
Be found,
And I will often
Wonder where
You really
Came from.

The forecast calls
For cold.
You wake me in
The dark of very
Early morning,
Just a tickle
Of whiskers on the
Foot flung from
Beneath the covers.
Irrational exuberance
Leads us out the door,
Through the crusted snow,
And pauses to be washed
With moonlight.
Inside we go,
Circling around the
Sofa at warp speed.
You dash down breakfast,
And after one more blitzkrieg
Circling,
Snooze
Until the sun comes up
And we venture out
Again.

I stand in the
Pouring rain
At the middle of
The field,
Waiting for the
Deluge to obliterate
My tears,
Thunder to iron
Flat their history,
Rendering them
Meaningless and
Mundane.
Yet I am dreaming,
The smallest
Of flakes drift
Through the single digit
Morning,
Tingling against my
Face.
I crinkle as I smile,
And embrace where
I am.

Pain gets
Hidden,
Like spring,
Under a thick
Blanket of snow.
The fingers of
The wind carve
Safe places
Around the artifacts
Of past summer,
Spaces for lives
To be lived
And saved.
Seeking shelter
Takes all that
We have,
And the spaces
Are too few
And far between.

We venture out
Just as the edges
Of the light crease
The sky.
The shift change
Of nature charges
The woods with
Purpose and
Craving.
Silent wings
Flash in the periphery,
The night-time hunter
Abandoning the search
To seek safety
As he becomes the
Hunted.
The pink of the sky
Touches the
Fresh snow.
The day has
Begun.