tip-top tree branches lean together
to draw a warm blanket
of leafy roof over the woods,
tucking everything below it
into safety.

dragonflies lie in state
amid faded bones of grass
which keen stiffly
to a summer requiem
carried through the low autumn light
on a rattling train of wind.

a dragonfly
partners with the afternoon wind,
dancing their joy of life
to the reassuring beat
of eternal seconds.
an interrupted glance later,
it has slipped away
to somewhere beyond view,
leaving only the emptiness of air
and emotion.

reeds
admire their necklaces
of clustered sun chips
in a wavering water mirror
as they gossip
in the borrowed voices
of a rustling breeze.

a voice
calls to my mind's ears
from my brain's past
from somewhere in the deep unknowing,
blocked off
and inaccessible
except to it.
its winter chains of words
drag my emotions from me
down the hill
into the little girl I once was
who waits,
her ghost-infected wounds still open
and bleeding lifeless tears.

early one Halloween night
a witch was riding
up to the nearest star.
as she crossed the moon
her broomstick brushed against it,
leaving a trace of magic
that grew,
as magic does.
as the moon rose higher,
its wizard-laced beams
spread over the sky.
where the sky was clear
the broad white rays
blended depth with the darkness
to form a translucent infinity
of seawater,
with flecks of star salt
and evergreen tree seaweed.
where the night was cloudy
sharpened needles of rays
etched a delicate picture
of cameo clouds on a shell sky.
this celestial vision
lasted until the dawn rinsed it away,
hatching its own peacock magic
into the world.

one night
the moon shone down on my balcony
in full glory of liquid light.
I was busy.
I thought,
I will see it tomorrow
or the next night.
but the next night it rained
and the night after also,
and when the full moon again rolled around
to the house
I had moved from that place forever.
who would have thought
that I would never again be able
to stand on my balcony
and see the moon?

a new winter world
of rich snow,
a head of fresh cauliflower
with floret trees.

my mother birthed me
from the reflections
in her family mirror,
to be their reflection
with no substance
or reality.

the world is written
in emotional hieroglyphs
which I cannot read
or interpret.

asteroids
land on primitive earth,
*****
to fertilize a giant egg
into life.

pine branches
reach toward my window,
friendly visitors peeking in
to see how I am doing.

a frost forest cameo
fused to a pane
explodes a winter window
into a Wild West
of diamond-spun lace.

blooming masses of purple lilacs,
savory bunches of grapes
for the eye to eat.

gnomes frolic
in the branch-cut puzzle box
of a lawn
under the white darkness
of the moon.

running choking,
blinded,
through emotional streets
of an erupting Pompeii of childhood,
a tidal wave of bile
swept me drowning away,
pruning me through and through
with poison
which I was left alone to digest
the best I could,
twisting my stunted growth
into a dwarf afterthought
in an oversized world
of family.

I gave up a life
I didn't know I had
to chase a mirage
of approving family
and human caring
that never was.
now the lake has vanished
into the desert noon of reality
and I am left mired
in the abandoned sands
of poverty.

the wine of family communion
washes me clean inside,
converting my potential
to the tenets of family dogma.
the bread fills me, expanding,
to nourish me out of my image
into theirs:
no questions,
no discussion,
no rebellion,
no independence,
no chance,
no hope,
trained up to become
a member of good standing
of the Church of Wilson.

I have the sun within me,
a smoldering furnace,
something,
from which something must come.
like the sun
which shoots out flares,
nothing to the inferno of their origin,
my sun of unrest,
forcing outward
jets of formed feeling
that, molded into words,
give an inkling
of that from which they came.

on the distant side of life
I squandered it unheeding,
careless of its passing.
now,
facing a receding mirror
of mortal time,
I count the dwindling years
like a miser.

I  lie here on the path,
my body covered with sores
and my eyes blinded,
but I am Tyrannosaurus Rex
and I shall prevail!
I shall overcome this weakness
that leaves me splayed on the ground
weak as a prey animal
and rise again!
I remember warm, sunny days
when I followed the trail of prey
strong and sighted and pain-free.
I shall be so again!
I am Tyrannosaurus Rex,
lord and master of this planet,
and nothing can defeat me!
not a fireball from the sky
nor this wave
that washes over me as the ocean tide
and pulls me with it.
I am Tyrannosaurus Rex
I will not go!
but...
I cannot stay...

escaped from streetlights' tyranny,
the moon laces apparitional silver
through a blue silk sky,
creating spectral branches
from a real world mirror.

mushrooms
are portal sponges
of sanctifying nature,
absorbing the blessing
of wand-touched ground
to spread their kaleidoscope benediction
over the earth.

dawn
settles on a roof,
softly feathering it
with light and air.

tree branches,
wet with rain,
swayed by wind,
glistening silver
in the glow of a street lamp.
                but
moving, creaking in the night,
becoming feathery spiders' legs
reaching out to seize their prey.

a bush
greets the summer
sporting dangly new earrings
of red berries.

fingers of wind
braid swirling snow
into the blonde tresses
of a nearby streetlamp.

a silver disk
sends storm light
through sunglasses
of grey wool clouds
down an iron atmosphere
to coat the ground below.

as these leaves fall from the trees,
so may my troubles fall away from me.
as the woods are born again in spring,
so may I awaken to new life
from the winter of my regret.

a patch
of flaming red tulips
burns away winter's body
in the crematorium of spring.

a day
is a temporal dragonfly
disappearing
into the wide-open spaces
of infinity.

yellow flowers
pushing their color
up from the water's edge,
sparks of suns
brightening the shade.
             but
as the sun moves upon their place,
standing forth into the rays,
eyes opening into a solar eclipse.

a string of pearls
lies across a silver jewelry box
under the streaming rays
of a full moon,
the silver of the case
and the moonlight
combining
to enchant the softness of the pearls
into drops of congealed cream.

the moon
is a perfect pearl
tossed upon waves of clouds
in an ocean of universe.

invited into nature's house
as guests,
we act instead
like children in Grandma's house,
running amok
and wrecking it
with no respect
for the fact
that it can't be replaced.
we need to be careful
in nature's house.

bristly, brushy branches
of a pine tree
reach out
to scrub the surrounding air
after a summer rain

the crystal prism of the mind
contains the ever-present summer's day
of memory.

falling down
a feather staircase
to clouds below.

metaphors
are the linguistic warp drive
powering
a language.

sunlight
showers sparkles of lemmings
on a ruffling pond,
which the water
herds to oblivion
in the dark hollow
of the shore.

waves rock
a daytime lake
as scurrying ghosts
slide beneath the surface.

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.