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Saturday, December 03, 2016

Only the Wind Speaks

It's late, I'm grumpy;
Outside, everything is gray;
Inside, it's a mess.

Branch plays peek-a-boo
Between the slats of my fence,
Guided by the wind.

Pouring from the pipe,
The water keeps rushing;
(Collette keeps chewing).

With her dearest friend,
Olivia licks Collette,
Just keeping her clean.

Greenery is gone
From the bower of the stream.
Still, water rushes.

Empty wooden bench
In front of cold barbecue.
Chill wind up the road.

There are no shadows--
Road is empty, gray, silent;
Only the wind speaks.

Red, bright green, and brown
Coexist in the same place--
Two living, one dead.

Gray lies upon gray
Dim clouds covering the sky---
Wait! A spot of blue!

Thursday, December 01, 2016

Just Biding Its Time

It's December first;
The twelfth month is called the tenth;
A calendar trick.

Brown light on bushes;
Forsythia's yellow--gone,
To join the brown leaves.

Yesterday's rain fall--
Today's turbulent rushing--
Liquid persistence.

Suspended in space
Brown leaves float on the water,
Just biding their time.

He's walking slowly;
Full of his thoughts and feelings--
Just like me, I guess.

Nestled in the crotch
Of the slender triplet trees:
Pine needles and leaves.

Barely visible
Decrepit stone wall stretches
To places unknown.

Underneath this mound
Lies a former living space--
Graveyard for a house.

Monday, November 21, 2016

First Snow of Winter

Walk of Sunday, November 20, 2016

Everything's frosted;
Suddenly the world is white--
First snow of winter.

Drops from my roof top
Foretell the end of the snow
Just as it began.

Huddled in her stall
Collette enjoys her breakfast;
Peeks out at the snow.

Old skeletal husks
Taking on a new function:
Snow receptacles.

Despite the snow fall
The stream continues to flow--
Some things never change.

Deep forest is whiter;
Brisk breeze murmurs in the trees--
Then all is silent.

Still cling to the trees:
Brown leaves that have lost their way
And found a new home.

Shaking like a leaf
Small bird sits on a high branch
Against the slate sky.

Saturday, November 19, 2016

Fleeing Paradise

Sitting in the chair,
I feel so comfortable.
Why can't I just sleep?

There will be magic--
On the road, in the bushes,
There's always magic.

Three swings and three chairs:
Three dimensionality;
A sunny morning.

Slow late November,
Feeling like Indian summer;
Suspiciously warm.

Out of the shadows
And into the bright sunlight
She walks joyously.

Silhouetted high
Gentle insistent tapping--
Woodpecker hunting.

Dashing squirrel on road
Barely missed by speeding car,
Lives another day.

This sweet sunny day
Cars come ripping down the road
Fleeing paradise.

Perched on a tree top
Crow calls out to near and far:
"Know that I am here!"

Friday, November 18, 2016

Between Two High Wires

Pressed against window
Plant is trying to come in.
(A fear of winter?)

The light is harsher;
Soft rays of summer have gone;
Starkness of winter.

In the middle of brown
Golden bush blooms on my lawn
Forgetting seasons.

Soft clucking of hens;
Deep rolling trolls of the goats;
Morning barnyard sounds.

Old, gray and sagging
Out building has lived too long.
Still, it stays standing.

Old barren stream bed
Carries dead leaves and sunlight
And dreams of water.

Between two high wires
Last night's moon, shining faintly
Sheds a blue gray light.

I take just one step
And move from the bright sunshine
Into peaceful shade.