Closed Door

A draft picks up dust

under the threshold

rummaging across

a hardwood floor

as light peers into cracks

of a door bolted shut;

built stoically

to ward off elements,

frozen or blazen,

energy still manages

to enter the room

where he is not.

For many months,

the only barrier

between hearth and sky

had been the framed screen

that allowed fresh air in

and kept bugs out;

which wind blew that

slammed the door shut

is hard to pinpoint-

but the heavy carved oak

hinged on rust, cooperated

in this particular separation.

Back up against it,

the quiet takes over

leaning hard on me;

the outside attempts

to rustle up memories

I fail to forget.

Roundabouts

The car skipped the circle

turning left hard

against the traffic-

I watched it

and let it pass.

Out of the way,

I turned into the curve

letting my body

pull into the low level

centrifugal force;

the turn was familiar

and too soon I longed

for repeated rounds

on a road that continued

in straight, not curved, lines.

Blue Bird

Even in its

turn West against

summer storm fronts,

blue soared - climbing

across a dome

of azure bright;

calm settled as

clouds dissipated,

breezes dallied;

life lived lightly-

wholeheartedly

in divine light.

The Moon in the Sky Hung Heavy Still

Traveling North between the rise and fall,

morning struggled to pull night down as

the moon in the sky hung heavy still;

like moods that can shift between constant

and sundry, the atmosphere positioned

formidable forces against each other:

in the East, the sun climbed through

lavender and freshly laundered clouds

hung out in observance of the solstice;

while in the West, in its slag to finish its job,

still drunk from a rabble rouse with night,

blue skies framed the crater’d hanger on’r.

Driving through a kind of no man’s land,

the ghost light drowning stayed lit for me

doggedly begging off the invitation to leave

as day offered no comfort when the light

would invariably succumb to a longer night

than that pushed out of its path yesterday.

After I'm Gone

Green shoots push through

dirt muddied with winter debris-

broken branches - bark shards

soiled leaves - dried flowers

seed shells left by squirrels who

scam the garage’s bird feeder;

lukewarm sink water stains the lean,

gazing out the kitchen window

hoping to catch spring hatching

like the wet, yellow chickadees

that fight through their eggshell

under the museum’s heat lamps;

the hardy petal promised

should conquer April’s frost-

fight off the hawk that preys

on winter’s tight fisted hold

burying the brown lawn

in sand-like ice and snow,

but they hide from me,

when chores are done-

even after I’m gone.

Moon Bathing

I wanted it to eat me-

swallow me whole

and lose me

in its illumination

of the night sky,

but I couldn’t look-

afraid of tripping

on a rock only

to plummet into

a dark crater

and no real man

living on the moon

to catch  my

inevitable descent

back to Earth,

so I’ll lie still

on the ground,

eyes shuttered,

to absorb the orbs’

rejuvenating light

made of sun

and star

and crescent.

Winter Solitude

A figure stands in silhouette

on frozen sand grey

seen from the window

of a rented room-

the water should be iced,

yet runs up on the shore

dismissive of season and

the cold that makes every

thing else freeze in place.

I have turned the dial

on the thermostat

to warm the air

that cycles through the room

to keep off chill and

wonder at the figure, just there,

whose coat and scarf are

the only shield

against this arctic assault.

The fluid waving water

of the winter lake,

decidedly warmer than

the meteorological temperature

that headlines newscasts-

is not below zero,

so it is not frozen;

the figure moves along side,

seemingly not in want of company-

unaware of the cold that bears down

on those in isolating shelter.