She dons a robe of silence
leaving the burn-pile of love.
Reviewing her life-spread maps,
embers spiraling down, she notes
the junctures, the choices, hears again
the crack of bets flung at reality’s walls.
Well past being tripped up looking back,
she knows how solitude vases the rose stems
of unspoken needs. Pushing face first
into sandpaper wind, her dream
of flying brought down to wishbones
snapped short. Her gaze reaches inside
the forest’s quivers of moon-light.
So many trees flaring colors at their raucous retirement party-- yellows and reds and more amidst the green to dark green of fir, spruce, cedar. Squall-lines of rain-shower and gust soon peeling…
Faces of this age, inbound, transit under city towers. Tip of paintbrush inside canvas rivers. My eyes wander in a white sky, drawn as human to our magnetic stutter, hands in pockets.…
No wind for days, the webs collect mist. Rails unfurl strands of rust beside a river’s quiet, the friction of cloth on a mirror, current inscribing clarity on stone. Oak trees gray-sleeved…
It started with the sun casting colors on the sand, sun tanned brown pointing cowry shells – golden baked An old seagull by the sea watches me collect a gathering of shells…