Lone raven cackles  .  .  .
Clouds splinter across the sky,
Mist cuts down the woods.

Spot on naked tree—
Fall winds took all leaves but one,
  .  .  .  Dry leaf still dancing.

Rain wells in soft eyes,
Droplets drib by the windows,
My lips on her cheek.

Sun beads over lawns,
Gray clouds have all disappeared,
  .  .  .  Showers of daisies.

Under the muted bark of hazelnut trees,
Spurious, sprite juncos scurry in vertigo,
Pecking, replete bouncing downy knees,
Grounded, tuft, constellation of Scorpio.

Out of Greek myth, she
Glowed at the party and proved,
Stories I had told.

Her eyes were cold sun,
Red hair shouts our love undone,
Maple leaves falling  .  .  .

In a grove of seven oaks
From my run-down cottage
I see, the night clouds saunter
And drift and spinning round,
The break-neck moon, beaming
With joyous abandon, the piercing,
Painted white face of a pagan God.

He shuffles his muffled way through cardboard aisles,
Oblivious, sheltered, speaking in a mumble of tongues,
His piecemeal truths search for all that is meaningless,
Where he carves a gravestone—arguments in the rows.

Without you, my heart,
Sun is bleeding as it falls,
New moon is broken.

footsteps like swan feathers,
flow to behind the tombstones—
where I will call the memories and lay;
to wake for the times anew.

Flowers, we both cried,
Because tears were not enough,
Petals cup the rain.