No Water, No Ice

 

In sunlit brambles
Over my backyard stone steps:
Red winter berries.

 

 My hippy birdhouse,
Sitting on my front porch rail
Just attracts shadows.

 

 What's that reflection
In the old barn's small window--
Mailbox or a ghost?

 

A small picket fence,

Very neat, well constructed,

Surrounds a gas tank.

 

 Clouds now paint the sky
With fine lines and fuzzy brush
On a blue palette.

 

At base of the trees
Like an ancient Druid shrine--
Small circle of stones.

 

 How long will it stay--
This suspended dead white branch
Held by evergreens?

No water, no ice,
This small wood bridge now crosses
A river of leaves.

As the goat stands watch
Kids scamper through the dry field;
Hot dogs cook in fire.

They Murmur of Snow

Chill is in the air;
Indian summer's over--
Winter in the wings.

The sun and the clouds
Play their game of hide and seek;
Now, the world is gray.

Dead leaf on the road
Poised as if it's going to strike
At the hard pavement.

As the clouds gather
Over silhouetted trees
They murmur of snow.

 

 Wind blows up the road
Filling my ears with whispers;
I put on my gloves.

 

 Last summer's stream bed
Marked by a path of gray leaves
Winds into the woods.

 

 A sharp gust of wind;
Dry leaves skitter on the road,
Fleeing the unseen.

Now the wind is king;
All the tall trees bow to it,
And the dry leaves dance.

Clinging steadfastly
Shiny green orbs frame the sky:
November apples.

 

 This rotten old stump
Has become its own congress
Of disparate parts.

The old monster stump
Still holds the rock in its jaw,
After ten winters.

 

 While dry and barren,
Ancient hollow milkweed husk
Still shakes in the wind.

By the Sunlight Lit

Light shadows on rocks;
Free to live another day;
How gentle the sun.

Across the small stream
Screen covers new gazebo--
Reflects tree shadows.

 

Tangle of branches
Conceal the gnarled tree beneath--
A witch's hideout.

 

 Faint white shadow of smoke
Sends orgasmic puffs to sky
Before dissolving.

 

 

 By the sunlight lit,
Dying leaves are  suspended
Between the two worlds.

 

Tops of the bare trees
Still bearing their lush green leaves
Absorb the soft sun.

 

 I wave at cars;
They are fellow travelers
On this common road.

 

 

On this Autumn day
Nothing leaps out from the woods,
Not even a sound.

 

Where the Hell am I?

 

All sun and shadows,
Skeleton trees and blue skies
This Fall morning.

Outside my front porch
A wood trembles lightly--
Just an aimless nod.

 

 It feels like springtime,
But it smells like late summer.
Where the hell am I?

 

 Patient Alfred sits
As his mom licks his face.
They have each other.

 My beloved fence
Lies ready to be repaired.
(Why do I feel sad?)

 

 None more appealing
Than a girl on a proud horse;
Nothing more remote.

 

 Peter's watercress
Billows in its concrete square
Once a foundation.

 

 "I am not your toy;
Whiteness is of no concern;
I will roll in the mud."