watching the tree in the corner 

stand through summer rain

turning greener and darker 

knowing it’s a matter of time 

before color fades, leaves fall

and clouds cover the moon 

all becoming a blue-grey 

but right now it’s afternoon

people are laughing 

dodging the drops 

I watch a town bustle through lunch

stories through the window 

the rain cool on hot pavement 

August is ready to sleep 

summer is slow and heavy green 

making planning hard

and daydreaming fuzzy

.

my body is healing 

and that too is slow 

making dancing a memory 

.

the clock drags its hands 

as sun swallows sky

I try to stay rooted 

.

I hum without song

a sort of blue-like sky

making days pass gently 

the air was heavy like a Carolina bay in July

there was a sweetness that pushed limits, 

like magnolias in the night at last bloom

.

sounds of road equipment 

were North Philly and smells of industry 

were Rittenhouse Square homeless 

.

my hair blew across my face 

with a  whiff of highland perfume 

and a tinge of woodsmoke 

.

a train whistle heralded another century 

when the town had lochs

and there was growth on the river  

.

my brightly painted toes were a whimsy

from a decade of primal excess 

and each step felt as good as breathing 

.

the town clock chimed, same now as then

which meant time was the same 

meaning little when you don’t pay attention

This week feels like walking encased

in cobwebs, shuddering and sputtering 

without making any difference

except to make things worse.

.

“Why is everything a battle?” he cried

to the music in the background 

as he drove everywhere too fast. 

.

There are no answers, only signs

meaning everything and nothing depending 

how literate you are with the heart. 

.

The sign said to go forward a day at a time 

which feels like trying to count sand in 

an hourglass then releasing it on the beach. 

.

In a world of todays, it’s hard to see

destinations when roads twist and jar,

making what’s ahead look like a wilderness.

.

“There’s always time,” she told me 

but I knew better. We don’t always have a tomorrow. 

Just on the other side of the window,

March winds are banging the hell out

of my house and trees and utilities. 

.

It’s dark so I can only imagine the mayhem.

Usually, I wake to just some fallen branches.

.

They say weather is getting worse,

more severe, just like politics and children

running rampant without any filter. 

Each generation wants to be the one 

that survives the worst but we’re all  just 

spiraling as far from Eden as possible-

just with new vernacular. 

.

The sky is roaring now, deep in the night

and I think of summer storms

and the relief of the after. I can’t imagine 

the warmth or the green right now,

but I know it’s coming again.