Sunday, November 20, 2016

Wet November

A wet, wet November, 
and the world has fallen hushed;

And my mind wanders to things—
to wonders and things—

like how I’m just a soul, and you’re
just a soul,

and how rain falls like magic 
upon the human psyche.

And today I feel too big for 
this pretty little box, and
a little too small for
this dripping wet world.


Distance waters down—
like tape that’s lost its stick.

There’s a green patch over there—
and a longing in my hands.

And who else would have thought
that I would lose my words?

And maybe my grip.
And maybe my grip.

But I’ll continue to hold on,
like tape that’s—
like tape.

The Late Spring

Burnt orange breast!
Dance upon the dry bent grass.

Open your wings,
sing loud and chime;
Announcing the day,
“The sun is bright!”

It’s time to be free
and, rusted, fly.

Spring 2015, after the coldest, longest winter of my memory. But, freedom.

The Happy Death

The sweet scent of decomposing leaves
on grass of gold and green,
yawning with exhaustion.

The fingers of trees are
singed with first frost;

And cat’s ear, untouched
by the change so far, offers smiles
as bright as the noontime sun,
And welcomes the season
of soup and sweaters

as it basks upon the dying lawn.

Fall 2014… start of B.Ed. program. Part of me knew.