The snows of March...

... they fly to ground
riding gusts, they dress tree limbs,
and coat the world in a cotton-like fluff.
Then lying soft and gentle as winds and fall subside
The muffled quiet it brings, rises to swallow
background sound, in the ebbing
of snow's ride from cloud to swirl

It clings so tenderly and complete
it is as if it knows the chased tick-tock
towards tomorrow's warmth

I watch and an eager feather covers my lash
as a once and unique snowflake
dissolves into a common drop of rain

I speak a thought to the snows of March
"Hold tight, you will not be here very long..."

I feel that sly and knowing smile rise then fade away
as I realize thus and slowly, the snows
have whispered quietly this very same thing
to me

a lyric just born

The wind reminds that tomorrow

Has not been written, it is the pause

At the end of the present breath, the wind

Carries on a journey, like droplets

lifted from the sea, water flowers and raise worms

near dawn and unto a silent Robin …

At dusk beneath the old pin oak,

I heard an unfamiliar call

Looked up to see an old red breast had a new song.

In the heart of evening, the power of the day

Formed thick cloud and I waited

For the winds to bring the change

To thunder and storm… I waited

Knowing the passion of rising clouds.

The windless stillness reminds that tomorrow

Has not been written, it is the pause

In a lyric just born, for the song

Of a new day; when the voice rises like warming sun

A new song of the spirit, new pieces

to fit a mosaic of time

As if we were needed for the Sun

To warm the earth…such imaginings

Borne on winds of wonder

Like the butterfly, we rise with moving air

travel where it will and taste the sweetness

Of many flowers—it is a world seemingly made for

fragile wings and ceaseless hungers, and the winds

leave pathways of scented honey.  

African Mango...

red and amber..yielding to my touch
the fleshy sweetness oozes across lips
down chin to leave telltale traces
of momentary joy, on unbuttoned shirt.

I think of the measures
these lips have taken, slight sips, and 
draughts and long, slow swallows
 from the cup of life

when age finds the halfway zone
so much ahead so much behind
one reflects less indifference
one knows and expects more-
from each grain of sand through hourglass-
the potential for happiness

silica formed from the fire-womb of the world
so fitting, sand within glass
it is summer  the middle of the turn
it forms the sweetness earned from
cold and denial of the sun
sweetness in the middle, and we yearn
for little else