In this space between Middle C
an octave above and below
I hear you climbing up into me
settling soft and slow
between the tense downer of last night
and my early morning need
for sleep and the wide feather of peace.
The piano plays on
into the awakening dawn
where stars are gone
and the summer sky is born.

Here in this room growing green
where life leans in every direction
in the morning
in this oxygen rich space
I chase my dreams into the day
without shame and with great affection
I convene with the universe
at my fingertips
and touch even the darkest real
my mind whirls my heart feels
on these lines where the soul
is made whole with the magic of words
in a vigil of grace
here in this small paradise.

My love is a gale force wind
the earth swings and my heart sings
for you I will lean and bend
but I neither bow nor adore you in the end
that word only for the author of the wind.

Like a film filling space one frame at a time
it falls together seemingly by accident
but before I know it there it is –
a story, a revelation
a dawning
an aha! moment.
And I don’t even think about
the minds that came upon the ideas
images, humor or drama
together.

I should think about that the next time
a series of seemingly unconnected events
fall upon
or into me
with a surprise ending.

His hand twisted the two wires,
          and the engine wondrously fired.

I yelled and cried when I broke my arm
          he easily wrapped it without alarm.

Sorry son, I can’t come to your game,
          the overtime list had my name.

Boy, there’s gonna be a delay,
          my big project is due today.

Your dad went out of town to speak,
          can’t play pitch and catch this week.

He picked up the phone and he heard me say:
          “Daddy, the cops wanna take me away.”

Tonight your dad’ll deposit his check
          then we can fix the car you wrecked.
                              ---------------
Thank you Daddy for all you’ve done
“Don’t thank me, your mama raised you, son.“

I regularly tear up with both sadness and joy
              seeing a daddy squatting, listening to his boy.

Father-son ties
mix long lows and splendid highs.
Yes, there are tears and yearning
for more than his earnings.
But now I see how my dad’s hand
protected and provided,
how he taught me to take a stand,
and showed me how to be a man.

Perched on the plank seat
of the old wagon
the dusty man gently jiggles the reins
of his reliable old steeds,
they as resolved as he
to reach Archer City
to get booked up.

Larry was there with his white hair
whittling his latest creation,
an overweight manuscript
sure to cause a sensation
no matter its heft.

They sat together talking
til the fireflies flew,
shared stories of books
loves, and good bass hooks,
reaching down to fetch a fresh brew
when they got parched
which was frequent
as they spoke at length
of men like Woodrow and Gus,
how they cussed,
poked, and stretched yarn after yarn.

Larry’s gone to the barn
but the guy who pulled up
in that old wagon
still is reading
and yet yearns
to revisit Texas lakes
to fish bass,
visit the local café,
and eat a passel of pancakes
or a big, tasty chicken fried steak.

There is an old hymn
this world is not my home
an old friend freely sings
its lyrics but she’s lonesome
never full of joy in her place
ready to depart
but a strong heart keeps her here
for us to talk
and laugh this year
not last or next but now
with both cheer and tears
in our eyes
and on our cheeks.
We’re not waiting.
In this long float
we can smell the fragrance of aster
not before or after
but blooming in our spring
upon this glorious encircling stream.