I have need of a peaceful retreat— from news that pounds like hail on a roof, from world disasters, uncivil tweets— so under my quilt, I hide—aloof. Rescued from death in an old cedar chest, it smells of forest and old campfires. Wrapped in the quilt, I clear my head, and file away thoughts of… Continue reading My Walden
In the dark and sightless eyes of night we captain ships across the sea of dreams. All alone, and absent the starlight, the journey’s not the pleasure trip it seems. Too often, dreams of fancy become fright while sailing the unconscious, deep and vast. As captains, we must stay the course and fight until the… Continue reading All Alone, and Dreaming
The hawk drops through air like a stone, dives, clutches, and plucks his prey out of the feeder at break of day, and tows it aloft to his aerie home. The man stoops with stiffened knees for something grey as his thinning hair: a flight of feathers fell from the air, the innocent victim… Continue reading Feed the Predator, or the Prey?
In the breeze of a new spring dawn, a petal falls from the cassia tree— freed from its flower, gold as the sun, its moment arrived, its bondage done— it drifts in silence, soft and free. Nature reckons with numbers and sums, while I stand still in the gentle breeze: the phoebes arrived, the… Continue reading Petal by Golden Petal
Out of breath, we reach the place where mountains peak high, and the earth curves like a whale’s back where sea meets the sky. And this much is too much to fully comprehend … that we could gaze with God's eye so far across the land, and that together we would lift the… Continue reading The Offering
In the Sixties, outskirts of town, our playground was a forgotten lot. With cast-off tires, bricks and boards we fashioned a cabin in that spot. On a moldy log over the stream we tested our balance, just for the prize of pussy willows, tall and tan and velveteen, on the other side. The… Continue reading Playgrounds of the Sixties
Many months’ weather and weekends have passed; winter is gone, and I’ve not climbed your stairs with my shovel and gloves—you’ve not seen my face, so buried I’ve been in a canyon of cares. With winter came the winds of regret— for those I wear new wrinkles within. I’ve mourned the untimely loss of… Continue reading Ode to My Forgotten Garden