a section of tree
stands against the steel-grey threat
of gathering October clouds,
its leaves straining
like hounds to slip
the leash of branches
into the Wild Hunt
of the lusting wind,
as their single fellows
scud by through the gloom,
ignoring the supporting rooftops
in their delirious swirl
to freedom.

dragonflies
are living messages
sent on a milkweed journey
from the lost world
of their origin
to remind the present era
of its duty
to itself.

books
are intellectual hands
pulling me
from the quicksand of sluggish despair
and tossing me to flight
into the updrafts of the mind.

autumn leaves
spill down over a roof
to a pocket of yard below,
generous currency
scattered to all who will value it.

mushrooms
are nature's surprise gift
in the package
of a day.

her verbal glance
turns my soft trust
to stone.
writhing, tortured years
of her hissing criticism
strangle the living love
to be replaced
with a dead space of protection,
freezing my potential
in the suspended animation
of living rock.
aging but not aging,
aging but not growing.
no Perseus
came flying on winged heels
to my rescue
to hold her up
to the polished shield of reflection.
I am doomed to survive
as a moving statue turned inward,
roaming a blighted inner wasteland
of fossilized emotion.