Chat-room
My mind is my very own chat-room.
There’s so many of me
and we talk constantly.
My only problem is that
I like the sound of my voice so much
I don’t listen to what I’m saying.
So nothing is ever resolved.
No good ideas are ever agreed upon.
I used to be able to think straight.
But that was before
synchronous conferencing.
The milking
A quarter-moon and fading stars
leaves emerge from tree branches
cardinal dives into bird-feeder
my heavy trudge makes the snow talk
cold fills my nostrils
cows wheeze breath balloons
a few flakes drift down from the barn roof
milking hands crank into gear
sun-streaked drops ping in buckets
sleepy eyes blink slow as thaw
nothing I do will get my name in the papers
I impress upon myself my ongoing value
Our last dance
Just a night light,
a table, a vase, in shadow,
no music,
but silence enough to dance,
for her to hold me,
not lover-close,
more like moss on stone.
Sequins – lilacs - myth –
there, in my house,
all draping over me.
After months apart,
she’s in this dress for the occasion –
orchard – lavender –
my apartment, a makeshift ballroom –
hoards of solitude she can’t see.
I can embrace but not explain,
light on my feet
but too much weight on the tongue,
trying to speak with
the print my hand makes
on the small of her back,
as we glide by the flowers
and bright petals mirror.
The dress flares, glittering,
a restless totem,
touched but remains untouched,
violet and white
and still less bright than her eyes.
She must go - a tap on my shoulder.
Time has the next dance, not me.
The one sound worth hearing
Above the usual suburban cacophony,
you hear the hum of wings
skimming the skin of the wind.
Your eyes brighten,
make a case
for the selectivity of ears.
A hummingbird is eager
for a last drink before dusk.
Everything else is apathetic.
Everything else has time on its hands.
Autumnal days
Autumn doesn't star
as spring does.
The crackle in the air is an acquiescence
but one that dresses so splendidly.
First, the unpicked fruit drops
Then the foliage turns,
red and yellow and gold,
as if painted by the breeze's brush.
Limbs begin to drip, thin out,
broaden the light.
Leaves drift to earth,
with the full concurrence of the sun,
or where shadows wade in moonlight,
settle on the ones that fell before,
ready for when new life comes calling.
Each of them is a destiny,
letting go one place,
fulfilling elsewhere.
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