Before Sleep

There is much to do before sleep,
more than the miles to go
or the bucket list made just for fun.

There are flowers to tend,
oceans to swim
and projects to bring to fruition.

There are things that need remembering:
guitars and bonfires, full moons as yet unseen
and sunsets that steal the breath away.

There are seasons to attend, prayers
to amend, and truths to consider,
a blending of fact and dream.

A gentling at summer’s end when leaves
begin to fall. They must be raked you know
Before sleep.


Scrapes and bruises bandaged,
they sit waiting as the water rises.
Underground, the air grows thin;
eyes are clouded but joy resounds.
Eight boys brought to safety, leaving
four more and the coach. Soccer
never taught such faith.

Few things in history
have so united the world, bridging
politics, religion, race and all
the petty differences. We are
as one — waiting, hoping,
bound and bruised, kneeling
in shared prayer.



Epiphany while Eating a Peach

The orchard a sensation of sweetness
grown ripe, an inkling of my insignificance
as I savor that first taste.

There is a certain joy to realizing
how happy I can be
with peach juice on my dress.

This moment of knowing I don’t know the breeze —
not the birds nor the blooms that dot the green hills.
I know only this sudden smallness that recognizes me

as I stand here aware and alien, separate  and yet not,
eating a peach at the end of a stormy June. Sharing
the tree with monarchs and bees and one spotted fawn,

unknowing of all I don’t know, but, at last,
fully conscious of the possibility of flight
and this hunger to touch the sky.

Poets’ Great Beyond

In journey to the wide expanse
beyond the realm of night
we tarry for a moment in this clime

We pause to write a poem
plant a garden, and on a warm June day
we dream

Here a pine tree, there a maple
each nodding in their conversation
with the breeze

Their wisdom far exceeds
our comprehension, their dreams
we can’t conceive

but even in this sluggard mind of mine,
it comes to me this summer day
as sun splashes

through the window where I sit
that in spite of all the stumbles
that we make

we glory in the destination.
No doubt we’ll find a pen
and ink pot waiting.