Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Reading Omens

No neat V due south
                        but a scribble of scattered lines
     swishing across the blank grey sky,
           spots enigmatic as tea leaves.
Is autumn leaving?
Winter breathing
cold and close?
              The geese will not commit.

Then a long, silent pause;
               no passengers overhead.

              Waiting.
            Wondering.

The nothing is
punctuated loudly
by a lone pair of geese
            no hurry
                             no hurry
                                              no hurry
winter is
                  still
                                far
                                            away.

Friday, October 24, 2014

Night Fox

Narrow in flight,
the fox sails through the night.
Soundless and sleek
who knows what he seeks:
a mouse,
or a den
safe from rain and wind?
Who knows where he goes:
just here
or far there?
The fox sails through my lights
and out of sight.



Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Night Light

Light presses against me
narrowing
my field
of view.

I can't see
unless
with my hands
I form blinders
to either side                 of my eyes
to push away the                     light
pressing
against
me.

I need
to see the sky
starring
all the stars
born before
the time
of light.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Just in Time

Just in time
wire-legged flamingos,
flaming pink,
arrived.
Just in time
for chill September's
not-quite-frost 
to arrive,
just in time
to tip maple leaves
flaming red
but not as bright
as my plastic
aviary.



Case of 24 Large 26

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Oblivious

bat flittering through
the strobe of night lightning
intent on one moth

Monday, July 21, 2014

Three Haiku for Flying Creatures


The flowers are here!
But the tiger swallowtail
flies up to the sun.

--- \o/ ---

Robin runs in spurts
along the road: who praises
the running of birds?

--- \o/ ---

Ragged butterfly,
how can you flutter up
more hole than wing?

--- \o/ ---


Sunday, July 13, 2014

Where

Head down
scuff the gravel
cool between tall trees
step out into the bright heat
of home perched alone
on the crisp hilltop.

Head up
rustle ripe timothy
growing wild, hiding home
though you stretch up tiptoe
under that same sun to see
then step through and crunch across.

Straight ahead
driving by on the highway
tar and bricks steal proof of memory . . .
I do not follow that now paved road
nor look for overgrown paths to follow
just in case
the house stares back at me.


(Written during a workshop at the boyhood home of Stanley Kunitz; given themes: place and time.)