On the Rise

Finding our north,  we fly
over the tops of mountains.
White petalled stonecrop, the stars
beneath our wings.

Wild roar of the waterfalls
echoes in our ears,
We are bathed in rainbows
and quenched by the rising mist.

Center of the solar system
we soar atop our kingdom,
Time unfolds in the wingspan
of ancient memory.

Gliding over a thousand years
of storm-washed stone,
we hover on the edge of day,
not yet awake enough to know
the direction is ours to choose.

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A Time to Bloom

Burden of the apple tree, all our sins
upon you rest.
These candles burning, a defiant light
in time of darkness.

From dust to dust, too short the span
at best. No mortal hand has right
to still the bloom nor steal the light
from eyes so innocent.

Colder still the grief December bears
with its endless carols and north wind’s
sobbing breath.
Although we doubt it now

Spring will come again and grass will grow
on mounds  that settle flat with spirit flown.
The clay returns to ground,
a flower will bloom.

The Snow Cream Bowl

It was too heavy for me to lift,
My older sister could manage it just fine;
she could do anything.

Glazed tan crockery,
decorated lovingly I have no doubt,
for clearly it was homemade.

The turquoise stripe
was the color of my birthstone
my mother said.

It was the dough bowl.
So many loaves began there,
the yeast a symbol of faith.

It turned flour and water into sustenance
and memories that filled the bowl to overflowing,
like snow from a winter storm.

Shorter Days

Dark drops early from the sky
these December days,
Equal opportunity perhaps
for more distant stars,
a chance for far off sparkle
to touch the eye,
reward for the poet’s constant
stretching
to claim a more perfect vision.
Not just the clock and calendar
are considerations
There’s the realization
that winter beckons.

Displaced Poet

for Joseph Brodsky who said
“The dolce vita is chocolate and champagne”


He bought bread
in the little shop on the corner,
had it wrapped

mostly for the mystery
and the precious paper,
a blank slate for his poetry

inspired by mingled scents
of poppy seed and yeast
and a yearning for his homeland

where loaves were crustier
and poets were noted
for their hunger.