We were of the mountain
As far as any flesh can be when flesh is weak and soft
And so imperfect in its subtleties.
The valley takes no shelter here
When we are sand and stone
Formed by the world over; we are not our own.

You can't fight this finality - I can,
But it takes its toll on me as the rivers line my face
And I feel the sea and the moon in their dance.
The Earth adjusts itself to this
And I understand what it means;
That creators are destroyers of the in-betweens.

I see no violent turn in the paths we take,
Just the gentle shift that time will make.

With my words I do not paint; instead
I beat them into what I wish to see.
A cudgel has not the elegance to make,
And I am executioner of my heart.
It's on the t-t-t-tip of my tongue
Crude instrument of communication
But slaver to which my life comes from.
You owe me this to end my frustration;
You owe me this to let me paint my scene,
To glorify the beauty and the heart
Without the violence at my core of being.
But not today - I do not make my art.

My love, I tried to write a poem for you-
Incomprehensible, my words fell through.

Morning coffee on a Sunday when
We don't go to church. We never do.
We will paint a still life of the stillest life
When time cannot be kept; it can only be seen.
And the dust will gather, as dust it ought to do.
It will cover us, monochromatic,
But skin is dust too. And so we wait and wait
And bombs will drop and Earth will shake but we
Will not be taken as we sit on the end of the world
Together, morning coffee in hand as the sunlight
Bounces off your skin in the most perfect way.
Nothing exists outside of us, or if it does
We will not open our eyes to it. Dust will settle,
And we will settle that we will be dust together someday.

Tomorrow I return to my home in the West
To the crackle-burs and carelessness.
We'll light a candle to keep out the cold
And we'll wonder why we've become so old.

I ran away, or I walked away, or I flew away, who's to know
I'd have taken the train away, but the train's too slow.
I imagined myself a hero from one of my books
And heroes leave home without second looks.
Had I known that this home was my fantasy land
Things might have gone by a different plan.

The "Last Best Place" was a rubber band
Pulling me back from the Sun City sand.
But things took a turn, family torn
I next found myself Chesapeake warm.
It's a dangerous place the earth seems to hate:
Hurricanes, tornados, earthquake.
It made me long for my place on the lake.
Such a place, nature could never break.

I'm different now, my new home in the North
Finally I've taken the chance to step forth.
I like it here, I almost could stay,
But the meadow lark still sings my name.
It's just my fate; I'll never wait for too long
For some new world to call me in song.
I wonder, though, how much has changed.
Will anything that I know remain?
How will I know I am home again?

--It doesn't matter.
Tomorrow I return to my home in the West
Glacial runoff, this broken nest.
We'll light a candle to keep out the cold
And I'll understand why I've become so old.

Form,
Function.
I sculpt
The words inside
The frame of aesthetic perfection
Every letter, every space, in its rightful place.
But who is right to proclaim
The words beautiful
When without
Essence?
Thoughts
Are written
The image implied
Through a painting much unseen
Every word, every break, something that I make.
But where can there exist
Elegant phrase, which
Concludes with
Widows?