Clouds Compete With Smoke

Rain is a presence;
Shiny is the reflecting road;
Clouds compete with smoke.








Soggy leaves in stream;
Sun is nowhere to be seen;
Gray darkness at noon.





The ladder still stands
Holding up the wretched door.
No one dares climb it.

Whirling wooden ball
Grows out of the parent tree;
A life of its own.










The woods are singing,
A high pitched vibrating ring
Not meant to be heard.

Ferns above ivy
Sheltered by the bowing fir:
Late fall greenery.

In the dark tree's cave
Two leaves wait expectantly.
(But that's projection.)










What are you doing,
Munching on my backyard lawn,
Loud cow from next door?

There is Still Much Green

Thanksgiving morning;
Drops hang from the pine needles;
Dog barks through the mist.










Barn is a phantom;
Chimney smoke mixes with fog;
Goats stand like statues.













Arched over the road
Trees grasp at the empty fog;
Lone car disappears.









Small community
Grows fuzzily on tree stump.
Hollow shot from woods.




There is still much green:
Ferns, ivy, moss, fir and pine;
Even some clover.













Breaking through the mist
Sun makes silhouettes of trees--
Blinding gray brightness.






Drops on the branches
Hanging down and transparent.
Secure in stillness.











The sun takes over
Lighting patches in the woods.
Where has the mist gone?

Same Old Mystery

Mist is almost rain;
Soft clouds are kissing the ground,
As my mother might say.

Loud crow sounds angry,
Shouting hoarsely from the tree.
Who is he scolding?

Great bird lived here
Feeding its ravenous chicks.
Now, just a shadow.








Just one yellow leaf
Hangs from the mass of branches,
Alone in color.

Woodpecker thunders
In the gray and silent mist--
Loud, hollow drum tree.












Reflectors in trees
Peek out like weird spectacles
Waiting to be hit.












Same old bend ahead;
Same old trees reaching upward.
Same old mystery.









Spreading near the ground:
Roots of the tree form a cave
Inviting strange guests.

Self Contained Cycle

The leaves are curled up;
Rolled up before the winter;
A bird keeps calling.









Interlocking lines
Framed against the mottled sky,
Carry messages.

The stream is so loud
Rushing hard against the rocks--
Torrential purpose.




















Acrid smell of smoke;
Cut logs piled on the lawns;
Winter harbingers.

Green moss at trees's base;
Above, not even a leaf.
Self contained cycle









Tire, going nowhere,
Lies among the brittle leaves.
Final resting place?

Planes pass in the sky,
Each one with a different pitch:
Celestial duet.

How Brown It All Is

Rooster's single crow
Rings out in the gray morning;
Then he just shuts up.


How brown it all is:
Grass in the field and dead leaves.
Basset looks forlorn.









Chain saw rips loudly;
Peter's bent over the logs
Storing winter warmth.

Somewhere a strange breeze
Carries a strange pungent smell
Touching memories.

They're completely brown:
Former spheres of white blossoms.
When did that happen?












Riddled with dark holes,
Insect wrought and wood peckered,
The dead tree still stands.












Dark seeds marking time
Inside the silken white puffs
Waiting for release.












Garbage at road side;
Maybe they'll take the sign, too.
(One can always hope.)

Challenges the Wind

He didn't make it,
As he raced across the road:
The fat nervous squirrel.










Staring intently,
Black and white cat watches bush;
Thinking or stalking?













Rain clouds have thickened
Casting a dim gray pallor.
Stream still runs swiftly.

A flurry of wings
Unseen somewhere to my left,
Vibrating the air.











Ghostly tea party
Still abandoned in the woods.
Another season.
















Skeletal fingers
Always reaching for the sky
Even without leaves.

A lone crab apple
Hanging precariously
Challenges the wind.












Brown leaf does not know
As it hangs from the branch
Its time is over.

When was this put up:
Sign that says, "Children At Play?
They have grown--or left.

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.