In evening,
a feathered remember
from the hawk
coasting these skies;
we would wear
fading flame.
Threads (Just about six)
After dreaming of Dresden, I couldn’t kick pebbles on the lane anymore.
Does anyone else miss quiet Sundays?
I like the color of the outside of the Louvre.
There are some grandmother spices from my age six olfactory file that I cannot seem to duplicate in my own kitchen. I came close today while driving with tea and almonds on a warming November Sunday as crackly dry leaves rushed past my window.
Threads seem to fall wherever I linger.
You’re looking like 9:30, he said
A feathered system
spread darkly
like conditional surrender,
a feast of summer winds
intruding upon winter.
“You don’t leave easily,” he said.
But leaving is irrelevant to me;
it’s staying despite foibles that matters.
Evenings wrapped
in such a way
to endear the listener to sing along,
albeit like a whip-poor-will
and not the sage sleeping varmint.
The sun doesn’t discriminate
between my lawn and my neighbor’s.
Trees bend
across time zones.
Stone is constant
until mighty winds do their slow dance,
taking away pieces
tasting of eons
to far-flung corners of lonesome fields
and busy crosswalks.
Birdsong remains ever true.
Night always follows day.
Don’t pardon me
I keep making mistakes,
like feeling I must explain
colors I see
against the same stone wall
each day,
or being afraid of the alone,
or believing
lost is unimportant.
I see my own spectrum
and even when I don’t move,
I am lost
and it is important.
The Word Rummager 