Morning fog

Shrouded mist,

lavishing warm,

impressing dampness

on this winter-weary soul,

hums a fragrant love song

in the middle of July.

          Philadelphia Tree

The tree, no leaves, the Sycamore, in April,

bark that’s smooth and gnar1ed, knobby body twisted,

slightly leaning, leaving branches, reaching

far away the horizontal, curling members,

greeting passers-by on Darby Road.

       January Day

There’s a hint of hallelujah

  even though it’s ten below.

The days are getting longer now,

  we haven’t far to go.

And soon a startled silhouette,

  and groundhog day will, show.

The sun’s a little higher now,

  we haven’t far to go.

Then a derring-do, a crocus,

  will rise gently thru the snow.

I almost see the grass there,

  now we haven’t far to go.

After that the robins return.

  They always seem to know.

surely spring will come again.

  We haven’t far to go.

But sitting in and thinking out,

  and watching darkness grow,

I see the old thermometer

  now fall to twelve below.

          With our backs against a wall

Sitting here against a stone among the stones of myriad others;

not wondering really, about life and death,

but almost awestruck because it’s October,

and the maple-sprinkled oaks, with the sun at late afternoon

envelope us, the stones and me.

The highway’s hum doesn’t detract, nor voices far away.

And ladybugs racing, and crickets bracing, and squirrels chasing,

and robins, two of them, complete the idyll of stones and me.

This is not discomfort, but death’s peace alive.

          Passing

Three poolers

in a car saying clouds.

One sees little bits of cotton,

another, moldy bread,

the third, a feather bed.

     The First Day of Farm Fest  ‘76

Primitive affluents

mushing our way

through acres of green

squishing black underfoot,

counting the rain dropping,

sopping our clothes

to the skin shriveled loosely;

dishoanhandled presents

sogging the floor matting blacker,

the tires, intent in their spinning

beneath and behind on the windshield,

cussing those cutting the line moving sometimes

and out, the relief, are we out?!

and then laughter and pain at the loss of

what could have been fun had the sun

only shone for an hour or two;

and remembering:

Butz and his pistol-whipped peanut,

polite and political, the heater on full

blasting water from air drying spirits and eyes

almost drowsing

betore the return to real life

and a dry pair of socks.

          Tanya’s Autumn

Behold the chuckling leaves

conversing with the granites,

as October enfolds the oaks and them and us.

Kiss the air

and your sweetest embrace give quickly and long

for tomorrow we’ll folds

of the white-snow December be,

us and the oaks and them.

          Untitled

This October afternoon the raging world is muted,

held at bay a squirrel’s thought from here.

The neighbor’s oak provides a rustling andante

in tune with leaves across the lawn,

and held on air by children’s voices, distant traffic, and birds,

and the passionate warmth of the sun,

as if first known again through melancholy eyelids glossing over.

Another summer is distant, already tucked away the cerebellum,

a million synapses away.

This afternoon the muted world spins softly here.

 Untitled

An, autumn-scented summer breeze

compels the presence

of my wandering nose