my periwinkle shirt
Today, I’ll wear my periwinkle shirt,
the one I snagged against a splintered branch,
then patched the rip, I couldn’t throw it out
because the blue embraced the hope of spring.
The rolling hills and river beckon me
to come and share the gently waking scene,
to loose the dogs and let them run unleashed
across the prairie’s green rebirth from brown
and down where daffodils spread pastel gold,
I’ll peek between the leaves that rise as swords
to see if pansies wear their royal gowns
and check reflections cast at water’s edge.
Untamed, the wind will rearrange my locks
while sunlight scolds my cheeks a tulip pink.
I’ll shrug off winter’s heavy woolen air
refreshed by periwinkle’s purplish hue.
This Winter Day
Today, I feel years
that belong to an older soul,
the weight of snow on rafters
threatens my stance
with each short step
gingerly placed on tenuous ice.
as if prayer
demanded the sacrifice
of stark bone
under too-thin flesh.
I feel burdened
by ages past
with words unspoken,
yet the blur before me
is but frost on the window,
clarity encased in glass etchings
that script the future
of a winter day.
When silence overpowers ease
and everlasting bonds unbind,
does faith exist for times like these
when silence overpowers ease?
For fervent hopes cannot appease
as steps advance with loss resigned,
when silence overpowers ease
and everlasting bonds unbind.
More distant than the timber tall,
beyond the ancient elms,
examine near each garden wall
to spy the hidden realms.
Engraved in mossy common stone
whose seams defy the wind,
a score once set by wizened crone
marks where dimensions bend.
When gloam engulfs the waning light,
when Luna hides his eyes,
when great Orion guards the night
in clearest star-flush skies,
an eastern breeze might stir the glade,
the rune might shimmer-shine
as powers secret are conveyed
when elements align.
The stonework might dissolve to air,
the bonds may melt to mists,
then gently absent of fanfare
a windowed world persists.
For magic hides this elven land
as soil and sea recede
with wonders few observe firsthand
where solace is decreed.
Should fortune lead you to this dell
and factors fit to place,
let dusk invoke its artful spell
then bask in elven grace.
It's only a tree
I tell the corner of my eye to stop imagining things
each time it grabs the tree trunk
and pulls memories
from the play of light
the angle reminding me again
of your leaning slouch,
of nocturnal walks
while we let excitement escape
from our room
and the urge to rest
smooth dampened sheets,
but that was then
and though the crabapple poses
to keep you in my peripheral vision,
I rub the scars left behind
by roughened bark
and shift my focus
to the stature of the sapling
where I planted my feet.
rust-proof the stars
I turned to the sky with wishes,
believing the expanse held magic
to connect stars and draw
a dot-to-dot reality
until I opened my eyes
and saw that the big dipper rusted through,
creating a jagged hole
big enough to scatter daydreams
light-years out of reach
while the moon looked face-on
with a haughty grin
at my foolishness,
I decided that celestial mystics
belong in picture books,
ancient fairy tales enhanced
by time and watery colored strokes,
then shifted my gaze to ground level
to find wisdom standing next to me
and listened as he whispered his secret,
that I should trust imaginings
to gravity for safe keeping.
with the rising moon
as winter-short day waned,
the oracle rose,
flooding night with silence
to read coded messages
etched on frosted panes
in his absence,
learned the depth of hunger
in the vacancy
of an apology
As the heavens shift violently
for premature arrivals into afterlife,
I feel the grief
that defies consolation
and wonder if in transcription
or translation over centuries,
a comma slipped into the wrong place
or an exclamation point
was edited to invisibility
and the passage should read,
“Suffer! Little children come unto me.”
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