The shortest season
was one of guileless joy.
Then came a stretch
of paddling through-
I was a workhorse.
Now is the season
of waiting-
there’s fear of being irrelevant
in a fast-approaching end.
Moving On
Shuffling through late snow,
disheveled and dusty
after a day’s traffic,
humming to myself
a tune of moving on
from where I don’t belong
– which strikes me as funny
because I’m always moving
since I belong nowhere,
a stranger returns my smile
which is about all I can hope for.
Backdraft
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 Word Rummager 