I used to picture myself on that horse
that rides from sunset to sunset,
leaving nothing behind but long shadows
the dream that makes of loneliness
a virtue and of love a dull ache
to cleanse the heart of wistfulness.
Me and Shane. While they’re resting in peace
we’re saddling our horses, checking our
provisions, eyes glazed wide open,
while they’re calling out we’re receding
into the distance, over the rise.
They never see us looking back, blinking
into the new sunrise at our backs
A poll of seasons
wind whipped and weary
these ragged dreams
Time is winning this game,
score tied, one to infinity,
the last stop on this old trolley line
looms ahead, witless, wanton.
It’s cold, let’s face it, but
I can’t help loving the slatted
sunlight, the already tattered leaves
flinging themselves underfoot.
I may be hopelessly anchored
here in this silty backwater
astride these gifts of algae
given long ago,
but I am surely more than just a worm
through time. I sink, I swim, all a-whim,
the winds washing the stained earth.
Still, there are fates involved, I’m told.
Dreams, like phantoms, peer out
from under sheaves of light.
Live with ghosts, and before long,
you begin to feel thin yourself.
A sparrow lands at my feet.
All I can do is stare dumbly.
“I’m so sorry,” sighs the breeze,
“May I do it again?”
A bit late, but, hey, it’s still Friday somewhere!
Morning comes late
crisp as November sunlight
a mouse finds a window gap
In spite of rain tumbling toward sleet,
the street half-hearted and gray
with envy of clouds, which take
their opportunity to jettison
sweet dying light,
the sun unhidden briefly, quickly,
and hustled back before any expectation
of warm rebuttal of fall can set in,
I know the trees live still,
though barren of celebration,,
I know beneath the crust that grass
and flowers grow, unheard, unseen,
I wonder at the thinness of sparrows
and the strength of their fires
on days like this that drive the mice,
beloved of field and furrow, indoors
to nibble in resignation
at the edges of mortality.