Why does cold weather refresh old griefs?
More quiet for reflection?
Longer nights to lie awake?
Like citrus, grief is a winter fruit.
Walking Journal
Seasons’ greetings
some trees re-leaf in the blink of an eye
the instant that winter first hesitates —
and some wait till a quarter of summer
Death lights heavy
Hummingbird mama
abandons her nonviable eggs —
but keeps checking back
a few more times, just to be sure.
An arm falls from a sickly saguaro
and breaks open on the ground
like a prickly green eggshell —
after decades of desert still-life
a few seconds of death-motion.
But the night breeze is so beautiful
those breezes are — so beautiful
it’s hard not to get swept away.
Muted striations
sand-dust with cream
intensely mauve’d rust
velvety blue-grey-indigo —
layers of early winter’s
desert dawn horizon
Shrewd
cactus is not cruel
it is just so damn thirsty
you’d be prickly too
Wondering
she was wandering
completely lost —
yet on the path
the whole time
Strive & struggle
I am a poet, — though
I’ve yet to write a poem —
when my soul blossoms
and my mind goes free
when I finally let go of
the suffocating shroud
o’er the wildness of me
my beauty will spill out
the ink will overflow and
finally I’ll be able to see
through a sapphire lens
into the heart of infinity
I know I am a poet —
someday — I will be
but the earth hasn’t yet
shattered inside me
I have still only yet got
the seeds of the words
within me; I am learning
and yearning and earning
and living my way toward
being born into harvest
There’s a meteor shower
inside my brain —
stars shooting down
every bright idea
words burning out
before inking the page —
broken-hearted dementia
sleepless engulfing fog —
search and rescue crews
report every line gone
Daze in a rut
At a certain point, some of us just sit down and watch the rest of our lives
Stride
Walking gets the body moving, the blood moving, the mind moving.