Let it blow!
Blow through,
rip, tear and take
back to Kansas
the decaying clutter of
last year’s living.

This mind left a mess here.
It held onto, no, dogmatized
the rites of living.
Now I live in Boo Radley’s basement,
with fetid furnishings, stale air, and
clocks all stopped at 1:11.

[The curse of imagination is to see what you ask for.]

The spider-webbed fruit of my forced labors –
an etheric fabric of false beliefs –
covers everything,
denying all
access to light.
Dead…nothing but dead stuff.

Blow wind, blow it all away!
Make sweet storm wreckage of my mind.
I give you permission
to leave me bare.
It’s easier to risk rebirth
than pretend living.

The sun rolls over flattened fields,
hay and mud like matted fur
on a yellow lab’s back.

It touches the blind cold earth,
releasing heat and parables
begun in early spring

The earth rises to its feet and,
shaking off winter’s icy glove, seeks
language and the old paths.

I turn to meet a new story,
greeting the tender boughs and
white rivers with cautious love.

Two cars, two strangers,
Side by side, by the side
of a country road.
Human fenceposts,
fixed, yet watchful.
Odd, perhaps
they’re with their dogs?

A quick glance in the
tear-view mirror and I see!
Sky-big fire ribbons streak across
the coal-black timbers edging the field.
In the center,
the giant sun ball
falls slowly to earth.

I reach for my camera,
flip the snap the toss the case
in one quick move,
only to see
Jack 0’ lantern trees
backlit in sky embers.
I missed it (another small regret).

Then, turning the corner onto Argilla,
a form takes shape in the amber light.
A golden-haired boy,
12, maybe 13,
crouching,
eyes fire-bright,
suspended in pure radiance