chapel light and a wooden walk home

on a walk in the winter

minolta 201 – 6

waves

Cuts on my hands, dry, cracked.
I sit on an old port watch tower,
the god of blowing behind me.
The waves beneath and to the left
shimmer dully, aquamarine, milky with undersoil,
white crests shooting up in an array of thousands.
That means its blowing at least eighteen knots per hour.
The sky to the east is fall time drama at its height:
Swirling wisps of deep gray darken to the horizon.
The west is bright in the setting sun but a few puffs of white divide the dome of the afternoon.
A gull cries.
The harsh northeast wind spites him,
makes fishing damn near impossible.
But the gull looks pretty;
a speck of white or a blur against the dark veil.
The lake reacts to the wind-sand-cloud love dance
by turning dark and milky in patches respectively
and with the inadvertant white crests.
It breaths rhythmically
perhaps that is why its meloncholy is soothing.

(from November 15, 2007)

on the happiness of dust

but dust
delighted just to be tossed
up or down
left or right

world without end

swallows dip low
over steady flow
of mirrored brown glass reflecting

the clouds, look like coffee stained cotton.

a “v” rises up, quacks away
and the wind sweeps away memory

the world just keeps coming.
brown water and light

it all passes under the foot bridge.

(from a vantage on the north branch)

butterfly

a butterfly
skipped
rose in hand
fluttered on the stage.
an afternoon
faded
rain in clouds
got dark without falling.
heavy eyelids
shut
couch depressed
wrapped up to sleep.
the lady
slept
breathed to me
whispered sleep sounds.
the day
closed
lazy walking
warm door
dinner and
farewell.

sometimes forever happens.
night never descends
as it did
when I sat driving
away
at the speed of sound
divided by ten.

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of the fourth, of hail, sunsets, fireworks, and fallen rosemary

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from my work and my trip to Millenium the night of the hail

minolta 201 – 3

more of LeConte and a little of home