Echoes of a Hush

The woods are awash in moonlight;
the only sound a single pine needle
tumbling from limb to limb
in search of ground.

It leaves a murmuring trail
or is that the moon
whispering sweet nuthins?

My back against an oak,
a carpet of leaves
beneath my feet;
stars shine through a gauzy wrap.

Fog mingles with the sound of sparkle
as if it knows such harmony
is another miracle.

back there
in a world beyond the trees

a light shines from the kitchen window,
the refrigerator hums,
the heart beat of a clock
adds cadence to the night.

Swaddled in the familiar, all is one
with the rhythm of the universe.
A collective sigh echoes

October Oak



Your bright facade, stolen
by the wind, lies
in saturated brown, compost
for the acorn in its midst.

Bare limbed and shivering
you stand exposed, stripped
down to the skin. Eyes averted,
the fickle crowd passes by you.

Noble tree, the bold leaves
that hid your secrets were just
a temporary thing but memories
make you mighty.

Was it Just Last Week?

Ninety degrees,
the heat and humidity
are more than transcendental
though they flirt with knowing
of hell.

Apparitions rise
out of asphalt no longer scarred
by the tread of too many tires.
That viscous face oozes tar from its pores.
Relocation has its appeal.

The sun sizzles crisply
consuming the air.  Birds
that sang through the storm
are listless now, too parched
to whistle.

Twilight paints with lilac and purple,
Earth turns impressionist instead of precise.
Grandma’s old porch swing adds its squeak
to the squawk of crickets and frogs.
This must be paradise.

Celebrating Now

The time spent on ‘it might have been’
is less than an invention, though
somehow still worth our mentioning,
if only as food for sweet dreams.

The time spent on ‘it might still be’
has slightly more validity,
For so very often, it seems,
the greatest deeds follow great dreams.

And yet, the time spent on the present
is the time that bears the fruit,
For our actions bring the flower to bloom
that our dreams have given root.

for Poet 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.