Inevitable Hibernation

The sun rises and falls with a certain repetitive grace
these days. The darkness disappearing with the recollection
of dreams and entering once again from the outskirts of our
minds’ secrets.
Today there will be perfect harmony of day and night.
The fall descending soon after, bringing with it visions
of vibrant and energetic color.
I ask with humble presence to capture this majesty.
Give me periodic gentle reminders, the marriage of image and thought.
Give me visions of color, as my mind must hibernate through winter.
Let me trust in the possibilities of rebirth.


Hollow Tree

The daydream crackles and turns,
shutters glass, plates,
translucent ideas, they are eerie
through his window panes
rays, truth, memorable demons
tend to occupy empty space, befriend the
morning and play games with the hollow tree.

There is something inside, he lies
and speaks of motion and sporadic instances
of joy, burst and unfettered smiles, in
spoken words, one finds the same,
sometimes a shore and other times
a narrow island by way of a lake
we once knew           together.

Why weep at lost opportunities, islands,
isolated beauties, my bird’s eye view,
once, just once, turn back toward the wood,
the crackle of leaves underfoot, a shadow
and a face, meet the hollow tree           we all know there is life inside.

Upon the Coming of Winter

I must believe in the wisdom of this Earth.
The coming of Winter.
That ecstasy will often weep upon the forgetfulness
of dreams.
A rise to come without a lightened gaze.
For we are such of what comes along with this settled
wisdom asleep on the seat of the soul.
Its resting place, a lap, a closed book, a title:
Dust Collected in Modernity.
Fog Atop our Living Lessons.
What we could potentially understand, if not with open eyes.
The scurrying, the six directions, the temples
being built for hibernated worship.
The branches giving way to vibrant pigment
in quilted waves.
All is preparation for something sacred. For life.
For what is ours and theirs.
For the protection of survival and what connects our breaths, our steps.
The sustenance of our beauty.
The chill will come and the reminder remains.
Frost is the price we pay for rebirth.


All that I thought I knew is nothing of what I knew yesterday.
What was hidden underneath is unjustly silent in the presence of time.
The caterpillar in the infancy of its cycle,
Nestles promptly underneath the comfort of a leaf
to awaken upon the break of sunset
and burn narrow across the horizon of day.
Why greet what sits in the mind stationary and utterly blind?
Why greet the illusion of grandeur and pomp and typed circumstance?
At the presence of this is a swinging door. Why am I?
Why am I at home behind this warm, sullen place?
Where the offspring rest and fret in safety.
I dream of the fall of my birth.
What is not in me, but the escape of metamorphosis, in fretted illusion
and the juncture of life. It is all quite well deserved.
In the seers, we see ourselves.
What guilt rests upon unworthy fulfillment.
A glutton seated on his throne.
The metamorphosis of protection, the road minus its views,
In view of nothing that belongs to me.
It will all end in oblivion. The ultra of me. The ultra of we.
Will join among us for what we have ignored.
The new day will bring forth what is silent,
And uncover what wishes to rise.
The moth from its cocoon, the ant from its passage and its sleep,
The lonely hearts from their solitary confinement and ache.
Break where the sunset may rise!
The horizon is not narrow next to the ground of its stones.
Adventures are above the principals of time and thoroughfare released in angst.
It is no longer a mystery of what rests in the dark,
But a lesson of the glory of our hearts held onto by way of dreams,
Of what is known in only not knowing.
The perpetuating truth that lives simply in the questions we ask.
This is the new day. I knew it yesterday.

The Guilt of Peaches

I felt today that I take
for granted what reappears
in tradition
in appeasement
in the fruit fields on the opening of August
in succulent flavor
in the orange, translucent light (after a bite)
these are things that live
again and again
they are rebirth
death, they are never
in stomach parting
the snack for a scavenger of night
a pit left behind for the subtle hope of new growth
we come in the form of return
we in growth, my children from the peach
the size of trees
look at me, certainly not a new tree
I walk away for the next picking.

Before Dawn


It is 4 a.m. and the night is still hidden.
You must know it by now.
The darkness that comes before dawn.
The dawn that waits, so patiently,
For those who question the day.

From the ground comes forth the answers.
Crystal dew scattered on what lived before only in darkness.
Now perfect in vision.  Alive in memory.
For the lucky ones who are able to see.
The moment. The wetness lifted.
Fleeting and open in the sun.

Borrow a lesson or two from the clouds.
Being hidden for some time may be prayer.
The moment before dawn.
The tranquility of moisture under a black sky,
Atop the skin of what rests in the ground.

Then without asking,
You are lifted by nothing
But what you understand now.
The contemplation before dawn.
Knowing power with and without light.
Pouring forth to replenish the Earth.

Harmony of Truth


Time came with the birds this morning.
The light gave them permission to speak.
And they told us to wait for the answer,
From the quiet voice of Spring.
Oh, harmony of the gathering.
Oh, life of the voice.
When you come together on these mornings,
You remind us only of choice.
And then we question whether to open the door,
And let our voices sing.
Should we let the pain of Winter be known?
And welcome the reminder of Spring?
Where are the signs of life?
They are in the thawing of our pain.
If we are quiet, if we are listening,
Our birds will surely sing.
They know when our ears are open.
They were waiting patiently for us, too.
Our ears are what give them the power,
And they are reminded of the truth.
On this morning, I felt you listening.
I felt your strength with mine.
For, I watched the singers gather,
And I watched these birds take flight.
The power of their unison will surely change the world.
Just listen quietly, they are singing.
Their harmony is our truth.