It must have been a day like this:

The gray hangs silent, still.
Winter drapes are heavy on the hooks
where summer lace once
flirted with the sun.

Only memories let the light in.
It must have been a day like this
when da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa;
dark brush strokes

on a day of storm.
His fingers felt the rain, his face
a map of concentration
and frown

until that moment when
she smiled
assuring all
the sun would shine again.

On Tiptoe

the stillness
of a mountain night
moss and stone

a sliver of moon

deer tracks in snow
ten thousand years of stars
tomorrow, wild flowers

branch tips touch
lullaby the night
with scent of pine

peace

the sound
of drifting mist
listen

Office Space for Lease

Scarred walls
plank floor
a bookcase built-in
(titles imagined)

Empty, ugly
except for the window
undraped
open to the sea

A wee mouse
peering
from its baseboard home
might be a prop

Not even the raucous gulls
nor the hint of a storm
could keep a poet
from this room.

moonlight on snow

 the drumbeat of a madman
courses through quickened blood.
blame it on the full moon,
this loss of logic.

the clock’s verse little matters:
not the mundane strophes of the hours
or the miniscule minutes demanding
something spatial in the midst
of so much mist.

it little matters whether lamps are lit
or stars; the key is memory,
that ancient enemy
of the absolute.

 

Moon Shadows

Midnight blooms –
the blue-green branches preen their blossoming,
mist cloaked meadows sleep beneath a quiet sky –
We’ve seen it all before and yet it’s new.

We’ve heard the bullfrog’s baritone,
the cricket violins
echo in unison,
resonant replies
drift through the window,

linger on the wall where moon shadows
mingle, making music.

On Waking and Sleeping ~ for Jane Kenyon

There’s no accounting for happiness
or the way it turns up like a prodigal…

                                                         Jane Kenyon

Dedicated to the proposition
of despair, she was unprepared
for those unsettling moments
when Happiness appeared.

Curled fetal in the mist of nap,
gray afternoon wrapped around her
and in the next moment
with not even a knock on the door

It was there, grinning
in that irresistible way
that only Happiness has, and she
still fog-minded with sleep

Embraced it as if this time
it would stay, forgetting
in the moment it had a proclivity
for leaving unannounced.

Remembering the Daffodils

Lapis sky or gray,
the gold is laced with frost.
Daffodils burst forth unaware
of winter’s planned return.

Brief the flowers’ bloom
and for that more precious yet.
No need to grieve 
                    these days of chill.

Mother Nature
cannot help but blossom;
it is her way.
The gold will return,

a fleeting thing.
It’s the flowering that is remembered.
What has bloomed
                                     will bloom again.