Telephone
Out there in the woods
I see it through raindrops suspended
Armchair empty, waiting
Between wet fallen maple leaves
And sunlight
There beneath a canopy of cedar limb lace
I hear it ringing not without urgency
I pause and then I sprint
Who’s calling from where
And for whom
But I am slow motion
My breath a heavy sound
The ringer out of patience
How small are we how
quiet at the core in grief
when we have known love
Street art on these walls
I walk between here and where
Art is in the air
Who calls it Winter
Maybe not anyone
Maybe Winter ought be Wither
an unsettling in becoming undone
Through our adventure cycle we endure
So much unknown ready yet still unsure
We are not captains of our own journeys
until we’ve sailed far and long vast seas
Rejected perfection abandoned second looks
How fortunate the few among many
Who discover knowledge secreted in books
As vision grows blurred our steps grow slow
As thin petals yellow our music hums low
May your withering come easy
May your wisdom stay well hid
May your death pass swift and unexpected
like your brief illustrious lifetime did.
Heron and me
Wind and sea
Space between us
Watcher and watcher watching
Am I alone here
Or part of a whole
Belonging is fleeting
Questions lift and fly
Melody of swash carries
Choirs from other shores
Night birds glide to clouds
I survey you surveying
Graceful hunter
Sky draws her shades
I choose a stone to throw
Pencil Notes 