She was guiding steps  .  .  .
My brave face trussed our way,
  .  .  .  One hand behind her.

Love, looked at itself,
Came upon nubile innocents,
Threw down with jaded sun,
Made its own bed in the open,
Earth rained for a thousand days,
Evolution birthing in the flood,
Meteors could not wait to fall,
Comets not wait to strike,
Oceans drowned in salt,
Evaporated whilst the whole wide
Swirl, turned and glazed upon
An arc of celestial remnants.

Late salutations  .  .  .
Old autumn guests come and go,
  .  .  .  Still leaves on the porch.

In mute fields of sun  .  .  .
Angels' wings hum from heaven,
  .  .  .  Flock of swans fly by.

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

Testing:
One,
Two,
Three,
Four,
Sibilance,
Sibilance,
Hello,
Hell­o
Yo!

My story ends of sparkle,
Hands, winding me in fable
The dark lines of her lashing eyes
Are burning rings, shear ice,
Covering the lost ponds of spring,
To see her in the ripening fields
Is to know the myriad colours
Of flowers, wild with loneliness,
She is always numbering the days,
Always on parade, hair, with out end,
Tresses trailing the wind.

In cool light of heavy air,
The lovers worked at song,
Whittling the oak as it grew,
Wrapping time in knot, a gear
By the rounded dial of a snail,
Even the sun waltzed forgetful
And antique moon soon forgot
What it knew under wink of stars,
The field was all in hushed flame
As the new ant trails always were,
Saying in the grass that May, windy,
Is all we can know ever beneath trees
As they burst from breaking blue earth,
Will always, grasping, be this evergreen,
The lovers became here truly, new witness,
To themselves never more, but only this once,
Eternal, fresh, undivided, jewels of sun, divine.

After autumn storm  .  .  .
Red and golden leaves threaded,
  .  .  .  Floating on sun pond.

If I said I want you,
Would you run and tell the stars
To close their eyes and ring dry
The clouds of tears?

If I said let me hold you,
Would the earth crack open,
To shudder the rolling lands,
Not cradle the hatching seeds?

If I said I am yours,
Would your name soon dissolve
And be lost in the revolving
Night that candles you in light?

If I heard your voice,
In twining dream and woke
Beside you talking in your sleep
What would your question be?

If I called your name,
Before the first sunning year
And heard you, Echo in the wind,
Would time guide us to the door?

Rusted train tracks slip down the road, winding into the fog.
Memories of old shows and carnivals brings me back to a time when I thought cotton candy and hot dogs were sacred.

I reach into my pocket to find twenty-nine cents.
The change from the Coca-Cola I bought that day when I was traveling for the first time alone. Three hours, Los Angeles to San Diego.

I remember my mother and father telling me to cherish the time we had together on our family vacations. I was never afraid of flying or got sick in cars or boats, but homesick? I was always looking for my origin.

In the final hours before sunset, tumbleweeds tip-toe and roll across those tracks which travel to all roads and counties, residing at this final crossing.

I didn't wait for the train to arrive before I started walking.

Gnarled twigs, eyes of owl  .  .  .
Blood blooms from feather and fur,
  .  .  .  Flowers of the moon.

Dreams lost when waking,
Sea spray, tangled kelp wafting,
  .  .  .  Briny taste of her.