a trace

 

bright blue
the eyes seem to twinkle light
makes a corona in the corners
of her squinting  smile; the low moments
bring a wide calm stare-
the little within girl asks- does the world not care?

it is that blend of joy and heartbreak
the meaning of her life's song
her spirit does not lift, it soars
her heart does not crash, it splinters
bit by tearful bit- she is a little broken now
the triumphant path is one that gives and takes away
we know this day through the echo of days left behind--
but that kept a trace, a splinter.

now, across seas and against odds; she is
where she wished to be- a little town with vast opportunity - 

In Bloomington, and
In the cornfields that surround the town
where she has set her roots anew
i think of fruits that crackle in the night
growing as we  might watch and see
the rains that fell on happy or sad days
tended soils in similar ways, life feeds
on every morsel, and time
is the  patient farmer.

wing of night

When we make a flower of the moon
and dance upon her streaming hair
to a rhythm of night song
we feel the closeness of living air

Losing self and  busy day's care
at home beneath a longing gaze
we pause... touching as lover's may
 words and breath billow the embers
of warm lips and fire in fingertips;
we touch and bend darkness to a wish--
to be, to stay just this way,
far from dusk and dawn,
beneath the wing of night.

We share the delicate ways
love lingers as if the sweetest scent
on the hand that gifts a rose

seasonal rites

Four crows and a busy red squirrel
mine the rain soaked yard
for rising worms and  fallen seeds
the Autumn brings change

The red maples are first to show
colors of the seasonal rites
while ragweed and goldenrod
tease the eyes and bring on sneezes
the undeniable coolness settles overall

There may be fewer trains on the south side
as the beans and corn harvests dwindle
and the lush green canopy that danced
to songs of summer winds  will gracefully
begin to bare arms and shoulders

Nature plants and man harvests
a world of bounty for all of its parts
calling crows, chirping crickets, and cicada shrills
fill the constant chorus

and a cooler wind invites a layer of cloth
to wrap for the end of this year,
In beauty, bounty, and a wondrous abundance

I  begin my long yearning
for spring- again