The Possibility of Dreams

The season’s change convinced
the vendor by the river
to give up tomatoes
and fishing worms,
There were no fishermen
and the garden is done.

So now he’s turned to roses,
wind blown but proud
they are beacons on a stormy shore.
Their stems are trimmed
of thorns and vagrant leaves,
They speak in hues

that delight the eye, and who
I ask you, could not spare a dollar
for a long stemmed beauty
or for an old man alone
living on pennies and memories
and the possibility of dreams.

Easing into October

Evening is serenaded
by the seventeen year symphony
even though it’s only been ten years
since the cicada’s last song.

Caught in the rain of changing seasons,
gentle and misty with the possibility of storm,
night wears a gauzy moon
and a hint of clearing.

The smokestacks along the muddy Ohio
will never be mistaken for the Eiffel Tower
but Weirton in autumn holds all the magic
of Paris in spring,

There is a promising, an anticipation
that swizzles the air with excitement,
It quickens the blood and stirs the soul
with gratitude.

Storm or sun,
tomorrow is beckoning.

Between Seasons

On a day so light
the glint of a goldfinch
almost (but not quite) blends
with the sun,

flashes of spun gold
spark  as the wee bird darts
to and fro on his mission
of mercy,

or industry,
without ever stopping
to smell the roses, a creature
caught

between seasons,
transient as the leaves
just beginning to turn,
giving up their green

for yellow
and gold, and red-orange.
Debutantes all with no thought
of tomorrow,

they enter the gala
singing  the songs of summer
as they drift
into fall.

Soliloquy on Summer’s Last Rose

Both fire and rain, so vast the rationed storm,
It’s September.  a time well known for squalls.
Tho skies are tempest tossed, His hand commands
weather that will sustain a single rose…
one scarlet bud upon an em’rald stem.
Such treasure is undeserved by mortal,
Such pleasure designed free from sin and now
the only vision to disturb …  mankind’s
foul blot on this picture of perfection.
Even so, the bloom casts its spell on all,
the silken petals lend their softer touch.
…..One time I might have plucked it for my bliss,
…..Today it is enough that it exists.