Even My Rushed Thoughts

Stella raced outside--
Cheeky cat wanted air, sun.
What an annoyance.

Tattered cloth in tree--
Sun makes it look bright, lovely--
A piece of found art.

Eggs, Angora yarn--
A rich little farm market
Right in my back yard.












Shining through the twigs:
Celestial opalescence--
A descended sphere.











In just an instant
Everything is still, silent,
Even my rushed thoughts.

Shadows are longer;
Small white moth flutters quickly
Racing from the cold.

How sharp the rocks are
Contrasting in shades of black
Painted by the sun.



Late afternoon sun--
It would be, three months ago.
Now, it's just early.

Then the Woods Murmur

A chorus of ducks
Dissonantly sing in barn,
Or is it just chat?

They have lost some glow:
Tall slender billowing stalks.
Now they're close to hay.

Rocks in the clear stream
Shine in the crisp cold sunlight.
The road is silent.









Peaceful magic lawn
Absorbs afternoon shadows
In soft green blanket.

Green leaves are rare now,
Nests rest without protection;
Sumac is fading.









Belle comes to greet me
Shaking her body and tail;
Each time new for us.












Old grizzled tree stump
Above shadow of a sign;
Fuzzy bear crosses.

Sound of my footsteps;
I stop,there's complete silence;
Then the woods murmur.

Bright morning light shines;
Rooster crows as if its Spring;
Other rooster answers.

Cars speed along road
Going from point A to point B;
Racing the sunshine.

Logs lie in the field
Striped with the morning sunlight;
Almost seem alive.

Shadows have returned
Splashed on the road and buildings
Courtesy of sun.












Sky is crystalline blue;
Sun is shining everywhere,
Except in my heart.










Two old stump buddies
Seem to have picked up a friend,
Or did one give birth?

Even dead leaves glow
Passively soaking up sun;
A trick of the light.

A car hums away;
I can't see it round the bend;
Just hear it rushing.

What Road Lies Ahead?

Cow moos through the mist;
Crows caw from beyond blankness.
All sounds are muted.

What road lies ahead?
Softly, clouds have come to earth;
The sky is waiting.












On edge of the branch
A swelling drop of water,
Round and crystalline.








Yesterday, the leaf
Shockingly bright green, vibrant;
Today, yellowing.

Bower of branches
Barren, slender, without leaves,
Still shelters the stump.

Out of the gray fog
A lone figure emerges--
Another walker.












Hanging in mid air
A sparkling gossamer shroud:
Tent caterpillars.









Rock could not hold it,
The piggy backing sapling;
So now it bows down.

Darkness in Morning

Dim, gray, shiny road,
Just after and before rain.
Sky is a blanket.











At base of the tree,
A round green ball lies resting.
Will it sprout and grow?

Shockingly green leaf
On a bed of shiny brown.
Forest is silent.

Darkness in morning;
Sun neither rises nor sets;
Just a gray stillness.












The familiar bend,
Mysterious as always
In the morning gloom.

Light rain falls softly,
Non intrusive gentle drops;
Ticking on the leaves.

Monster still holds rock
Clutched in its strong wooden jaws,
Waiting to eat it.

On glistening road
Brown leaf falls without a sound.
A hollow breeze blows.

Thin November Veil

One green leaf sticks out
Near the humming transformer.
Two energy forms.








Cold wind sounds hollow
Moving about the bare trees.
Small bushes tremble.

The stream looks placid,
But ripples touch the surface.
Wind is everywhere.












Blue and gray and cold--
Thin layers of Scorpio,
Shifting all about.

Wind is insistent,
Whispering through all the trees
Sibilant message.










They are everywhere:
Dead leaves stuck among living--
Thin November veil.

Old nest is exposed;
Sheltering green leaves have flown
Long after the birds.












Rooted in maple,
Pine sapling begins to grow--
Sisterhood of trees.

A New Chill in the Air

A new chill in the air;
Rough, cold wind blows down the road;
Sparse leaves hang on bush.

Leaf scrapes on the road,
Propelled by the strong cold wind;
Then all settles down.












Christmas ornaments
Have hung for many seasons;
Shining the mailbox.

Washing machine's gone
After years of standing in field.
Nothing is permanent.