Poem with People

The Snow
is falling,
falling,
the fallen
white blanket
Orion'd out.
The fabric,
fabric of
walking
fabric-walk
of opened-earth
I walk.

Darkroom

The house
of my dreams
is in the trees.

A name made
of rocks and gems.

Deer drift
into the moment,
a whale's eye opens.

My childhood touches
the earth like cave paintings.

Home is to never be alone,
is letting go of the future,
is the highest mountain

safe from the flood.

Mystery is a question
a willingness to burn,
to get lost in the wilderness.

We come together because space
is a void for light, a photograph

birthed from the slavery of darkness.

Old Friend

I saw you standing
alone at a bookstore
scanning a wall of books.
I was sitting in a chair

reading Tranströmer.
We were best friends
at one time. And there
your stood, nearly

ten years later.
I thought about
getting up and shocking
you with a "Hi, old friend!"

I pictured us smiling,
the years flooding back
into our faces, but, instead
I just sat there watching.

Maybe next time.
In another world.

The Moment

Time presses on
the fragile dinosaur

distance.

A monster
rampages through

the forest in search
of its [G]od(s).

There is

a blank space
following your birth,

a mystery waiting
to be written.

The quill flies now!

cuz i like ta
keep secrets
cryptic perhaps

to you
im like some
distant star

count the rings
count the rings
rings

ring ring ring

this time
it's not
the operator

patch patch patch

im unthreading
the needle
to do
or to die

Now

She lost
his bloom.

Try to capture
an echo.

An ephemeral
dance--

two moonlit
bodies.

*
A single grain
of sand.

An hourglass
in a world

washed new,
buried

in the thunder
of Niagara.

Awaken

A landscape

of animal

movement,

December turns

around, approaches

silence:

an astral

sheet of eagles.