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 circles 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.