Turning Down
The leaves are bruised and gnarled
by the turning down of the light,
and we are slapped silly by wind and rain.
The onset of the dark time,
cyclical, explicable, relentless,
despised or welcomed.
Category / Poetry
The Winter Wren
seem to writhe on the beach
where a southerly flung them ashore.
In the fading light
their golden brown lengths
twist around each other
like an ancient Celtic design.
September
Two crows steal apples from the orchard, black-eyed thieves shuttling their cargo (only what’s ripe) into the woods. Do I pick now or wait until the crop’s ready, risking a full-scale heist? Not just crows, either: coons, woodpeckers . . .
Continue reading… "September"July
Quiet on the deck this morning. Dry July, no dew on the table, the Straits glassy flat where local breezes brushstroke the surface a darker blue. Beyond, the Olympics hunker on the horizon, their peaks touched with white. A dog barks in the distance.
Continue reading… "July"Island Buddha
Buddha speaks
freedom, he says
as we bear him
from his nest
of spangles, batik, dark
Indonesian wood
Last Memory
Such a small box
to hold
the tall, solid bulk of you
bones and skin
your unbeating heart
conjured into fine gray ash
we sang a little
By Hummingbird Pond
Dragonfly leaves behind
a random trail
in the dense pause
of an island afternoon,
spattering light through muddy reeds
flickering
through the rising of several suns
On Ocean Avenue
The palms on Ocean Avenue poke
the sky, swishing their clatter
against fat clouds, against pale stucco,
bleached out by salty neglect,
against the edge of this sleepy beach town
that no longer remembers itself.
Four Poems
Southwest red rocks-
golden in sunlight,
in moonlight, black
The Shepherd’s Choice
Halfway between sea
and sheep, in a place
of solace, he considers
the cost of choice. How
choosing might leave