November’s Bloom

The pines
outside my window
whispered softly in the wind,
shared conversations
scented balsam,

and I, curious
as I am,
sat on the warm side
of the window,

Of course, their words,
spoke in another tongue,
escaped me
but there was something
warm about them.

Even November
has its bloom,
and there it was,
a russet coated doe standing
tiptoe to reach a pine cone,

a scene created
sans any human hand,
a scene that only God
and dreams
could command.

Progression to Perfection

It began with love of craft…
the shading by the artist’s hand
of hues that shaped his face
and showed his soul, each line
a milestone.

She ‘used an old pen
to draw the old man’*
One hundred and two — his age
an amazement, his peace
earned by days well spent.

Eye and heart and hand,
in unison they worked
until when done, it was not
the love of craft one saw
but love of man.

*quoted from the artist’s remarks

You will find the painting at
Roswitha Geisler’s Skizzenbuch/Blog

Music and the Morning Sun

Dawn tiptoes across the frosted lawn,
Hints of flame climb over the horizon,
She is a shy girl emerging.

Daylight overtakes the night
with a gentle riff.
Early birds looking for worms
start with a song.

Robins and thrushes
and those rascally blackbirds
begin the morning event.

Then the wrens, black caps and chiff chaff
with their poorer vision…
glasses might help but the demand
for avian optometrists has not been met.

Every society has its bankers. Under the guise
of needing more light to find seed,
sparrows and  finches make an  appearance.

Some freshly suited — others arrive ungroomed;
their valets obviously on holiday–
They all chime in.

The semi from the highway contributes its rhythm,
Even a missed gear adds to the composition.
A dog barks, a door opens,

The scent of bacon and coffee brewing –
The kiss before the commute.
Morning begins in increments and over it all,
the sun.

When the Tourists Go Home

The blue/gray sea
stretches  in endless expanse.
The tide is heavy with flow
and fury.  Roiled and misty,
it is a restless thing.

Little airplanes
with their billowing banners
have gone home.  No need to tout Coppertone
when there is no sun and no tourists
to see them.  It is November, even the seashells
have buried their heads in the sand.

On the boardwalk, the carousel is still;
the horses are draped in their winter blankets.
They will emerge in May with the music,
tails and manes fluffed with a new brush,
coats sleek.

At the beach, this is the Spirit Season.
Wind and soul and stretches of sand
become one.  Even the gulls
sense the change. Their rudeness is gone.
True to their tuxedos,
they are a picture of harmony.

This deserted shore is the perfect place
for peace treaties.  One must remember
to bring pencil and paper.  The tide is rising;
white capped waves are rolling in. Anything
written in sand will soon be gone.