Pause

Hints of summer warm the air,
Dreams whisper all is well,
Doubts whisper fears.
Will we ever be ourselves again?
Who were we then? Who are we now?

Have we lost that space where calm
prevails? Is it  foolishness or faith
to look for light when the sun is slipping
behind a cloud?  Despite the unknown
of tomorrow

Write your name with stardust. The night
is clear. Moonlight heals the darkness; we
are as resilient as Earth itself. This moment
is a miracle of wonder;  take time
to savor it.

Caught up in a Sigh

Wind
sighs through branches
of a sapling that bends
but does not break.

It is a sculpture
in the moonlight streaming
through its limbs and dressing
my sill with gold.

I would like this to be my life.
Days in the bliss of deep shade;
nights wrapped in velvet
backlit with stars,

an occasional whisper
of rain.
Experience reminds me:
All seasons change.

Renascence

From the fog of sleep
I heard the dirge
drift over Earth’s fair clime.
Make haste, sweet Spring,
to warm this land;
burst forth with bloom
of waiting seeds.
Raise us from the grip
of death that lingers
like a pall.
Seasons come
and seasons pass.
Each has its joys
and cares. But you,
sweet Spring, bring
hope again
with every bud
that bears.

Our Legacy

Not always monochrome,
this thing called life.  Yesterday,
the day so gray the mist almost
seeped into the brain.  Not quite
rain, but damp and chill.

Today the sun’s so bright…
as if it never will quit shining.
Involuntarily I am humming
a happy song.  The sharp edges
have rounded, blended.
The inconvenience

of confinement becomes another
thing… a gift of time to contemplate
being.  This situation not of our
choosing, but viewed in the right light
it can become a time

to clean the gathered cobwebs
from our minds…a time to realize
that life and breath
should not be wasted on ‘what if’ …
because every moment
becomes our legacy.

Any Minute Now

Any minute now the gray mist
will turn to rainbow. This season
of paradox will be drenched
in sun, and the birds outside
my window (which have never
ceased their singing)
will once again prove
that a song in the heart
truly is the best medicine.

Until that time (expected
any minute now) I will believe
in miracles. I will celebrate
the light that lives inside
and dance to the tune
of the drummer I hear.
Every season blooms
and passes.
What we nurture thrives.

Transfigured

Days draw near
when the meadow’s laced with buttercups
and daisies nod their pretty heads
in rhythm with the wind.

May we never weary
in our delight of seasons: the changing skies;
the golden rays. O! blessèd
is The Painter’s hand

that makes the flowers bloom
and blessèd are Spring’s promises
that bear the hopes and birth the faith
of ordinary man.

Fake Snow

A pale sun on a thin frost,
Winter was weak willed this year.
More than cynical, this season
that has seen it all and descended
into entropy.

As if bored with the whole deal
and sick of its own children,
Winter shunned January,
turned its back on February,
and waits now to pounce

on March, to pinch crocus
and daffodil at the first hint
of bud.  Disgruntled with doing
the expected, breezes blew warm
when there should have been wind.

It’s all a precursor of more gray,
I have no doubt. Even so, April
will turn its face toward May
and flowers will bloom.
There is no denying Spring.