The earth is really still the same when winter winds subside and sunshine flows while warmly blows the breath of spring again. – The earth is different every time the dead things turn to green and seeds that died now quickly ride their stems to life…againRead more "Spring"
Somnolent, the blear of grassy brown and khaki bends down low before the tuneless rush of wind that lazily pursues its constant quest to touch the leaden sky that spreads abroad and wide and grey and quiet like a dream: the painted backdrop of the winging birds flying on before the smudge of ghostly sunlight […]Read more "Winter Rest"
The promise of winter rides the charging wind. Dark clouds pace the sky, prophesying doom. The weeping willows wail and thrash in protest. Leaves, by the thousands, jump—a frenzy in slow motion— then rush the streets with panicked footfalls to escape. Not me. I read the signs like letters from a friend, and smile, knowing […]Read more "A Blustery Morning"
It flits like wind: the many plated fall that haunts the hollow echoes of the trees. It sits in gloom, the ever-darkened hall of piney bowers bending in the breeze. – And far away, approaching on the air, the mountain smoke-streams: hard, and sharp as spite. Severest winter— soon to come and tear aside the […]Read more "Autumn’s Oracle"
The golden leaves have fallen now— cracked and brown and dying, swirling in the autumn air that slips around me, sighing. All that’s left of a youthful dream, conceived in winter’s wait and born beneath the sun’s warm gaze when all the trees create. So soft—the pink and white unfolding— blossoms on the trees that […]Read more "The Golden Leaves"
Creaking with the cold: groaning, sugar-sprinkled pond. Highway for a squirrel. – Plunks of sky break glass. Tiny ringlets: small, then large. Spirals in a pond. – Water flees away! Restless waves reverberate. The tire swing sways. – Whirling with the wind, ghostly whisks of red and brown mirrored in the glass – – – […]Read more "Seasons: Four Haiku"
The frost lies hardened on the frozen ground, the trees encased in glassy slips of ice. A lonely raven calls across the field of silent white. The air is fresh and hard. I stand outside among my fields and look down at the rows of dying, stubbled corn: the husks of harvest—gone until the spring. […]Read more "Medieval Advent"