What Does the Bee Know?

It is almost eighty;
Relentless sun shines brightly;
It's not even noon.

Rooster in the heat;
Warmth has tempered his crowing;
Rounding out edges.












Was it long ago
This tree was bare and leafless?
Will it be again?

A chorus of hums
Floats from the tree above me--
It's a million bees.


Walking into shadows
Old lady brings some old leaves
To drop in the woods.

On the large boulder
Leaves are etched in dark shadows;
Ancient as the rock.

In the thick hot sun
Goldenrod seems more golden.
What does the bee know?








Purple, like clover,
Armed with a hundred swords
The first thistle blooms.

Green Against the Brown

Two flower pots lie;
They were unused all summer.
Plants grow around them.








Plane and transformer
Mix their mechanical hums.
Butterflies flutter.


Flapping from the road
Large bird rises from shadows;
Flutters to the field.

Green against the brown--
Ivy grows up the dead stump.
(The log should worry?)

The end of summer;
Still, the presence of winter
In the twisted fence.

Like chatting magpies
The two friends keep on talking;
Will they never stop?










Dead leaf and shadows;
Both flat and still on the road.
No breeze to shake them.

On the magic lawn
Shadows reach across the moss;
Brown leaf bunch on road.

Is it Rock or Wood?

Cock echoes itself
Crowing from a faint distance
Across sun patches.

A lone butterfly
Shudders soft across the road--
Now a memory.












In dappled shadows
The stream burbles quietly;
Birds chirp, insects hum.

The broken fence slat
Portal to a world beyond.
Suddenly sounds cease.









Sitting in the shade
A cluster of white asters
Waiting for the sun.


Covered with thick moss
It glows in the morning sun.
Is it rock or wood?

On the shady side
There's time to think in the cool,
Time to stop longer.












Standing tall, erect,
Leafed layer on layer:
Green architecture.

More Glow Than Substance

Buddha in sunlight
As peaceful as in the snow.
He's stone, after all.












Tiniest aster
Grows outside near my front door;
Open to the sun.

On the edge of tears
I talk about my summer
And how it touched me.












Bird chirps and shadows
Guide me on this daily walk.
Stream serenades me.

In the old wood pile
A chipmunk has made his home.
Seed puffs wave gently.










In sun's small spot light
A tiny plant stands erect:
Greatest show on earth!

A cluster of leaves
Dissolves into the sunshine;
More glow than substance.












Lying on the ground
Dead log melts into the woods;
A gentle journey.

Leaf Shadows Tremble

Silhouetted trees--
Portal to the yard beyond;
Bright sun on the lawn.












Hollow rooster's crow
Rings out in the morning light;
Leaf shadows tremble.

Cars with barking dogs;
Bright clumps of purple clover;
Cool breeze on my neck.

How swiftly I change--
Friendly to hostility;
When they don't wave back.












In the dark lush woods
Sun lights up the base of trees
In utter silence.

A metal guide rail
Curls around a sprig of green--
Impromptu bouquet.

Morning dew diamonds
Sparkle on a thousand leaves.
Soon they will be gone.

My first fuzzy bear
Crawls its way along the road.
Has somewhere to go.

A Surprise Flower

Patches of sunlight
Spread out on the waiting grass;
Tree leaves breathe it in.

Gentle breezes blow;
Soft thudding of a hammer;
Empty dark barn doors.










A surprise flower
Unexpected on my walk--
Her name is Violet.

Shadows on my walk
Fall gently to welcome me.
I can't repay them.












How silent the woods
As the power mower mows.
Motionless shadows.












Part of her garden
Susan stands among her plants
Drawing forth new life

Shadows on a log
Shades of live leaves on dead trunk.
Which one is the ghost?









In luminous leaf
Dark shape of a swimming bird.
Shadow illusion.

Still There is Silence

All the green seems flat;
Laid out under the gray sky.
No breeze is stirring.









Stream, breeze, transformer--
The only sounds on the road.
Still, there is silence.

All crows sound lonely;
Even when they're complaining
Nobody listens.

The sound of my steps
Mixed with the rushing stream--
A liquid thudding.

Spray of Queen Anne's Lace--
Myriad small white petals
Fit for a monarch.










Like a giant bee
Chain saw hums in the distance.
Dead newt on the road.









The woods are singing
Their high pitched ringing chorus
Familiar to cats.

Poppers are waiting
For the fingers of a child
To smash them loudly.

In Only Nine Weeks

After nine weeks in south New Jersey as head counselor and theater director at Appel Farm Arts Camp, I return to my beloved Yerry Hill Road. From the rush and wonder of creative energy with kids and staff, to my solitude on my mountain. This is my Gemini routine.


Under the gray sky
A gentle breeze welcomes me;
Chicory rustles.










In only nine weeks
New color palettes emerge:
Blue, white, yellow.

I am a stranger
To the rushing crashing stream
And the puffing breeze.

Saint Francis and cat
Both watch me in stone stillness;
And I stare right back.









A jungle of ferns,
Saplings, moss and greenery
Sprout from the dead log.












A flat large green leaf
Balanced on a slender stem
Grows from the old oak.

Myriad petals
Glow yellow in the pale light:
Stand of goldenrod.









A touch of orange
Lying on the billowed green
Foretells the future.