On earth, in air, on water,
light is its own essence--
an enchanted dance,
a harmony of rhyme
in quick pearling as on
the surface of a pool ;
Or, it’s slow, expanding
as if some obstacle is in
the way.

Beyond sight’s reach,
light glides, swan-like
or blinks, star-like or
dapples uncertain between
sun and shadow.

A match darts it’s first
white flame, then flickers.
Splashing sparks may
tumble over pebbles or
moon repeat itself
a thousand times.
A translucent cascade
of bright snow illuminates
a winter field ; the gentle
glow of a candle flame
warms the heart.

Even what seems
forever dark as
midnight’s blackest
mood is not immune
to opening to the glory
of light.

They may have grown in a wood
or a garden, wholly in bloom.
They now rise from the vase
in a sovereign floating of joy :
crysanthemums in bud, narcissus,
full-blown peonies and tulips,
fulfilling themselves, they ripple
and throb with passion. They speak
to each other.

One bloom has fallen, an arabesque
of salmon pink. The empty shells
and one small insect add a spiritual
dimension, mortality’s immediency,
a yearning for the unattainble.
Those delicate blossoms hang
against the blue sky, nostalgic
for eternity.

There is an **** of dark hills
veiled in night’s rapture,
an almost seeing past the blackearth.
Blue stars pour from a window
like a wound open wide where
loneliness seeps in.

There is an abyss that follows
the dove’s plaintive cry, the place
where I lock myself in a dream.

As time billows through
the hours, landscapes fade.
Loneliness, cold, brittle, desperate,
that long white season, is gradually
undone and day opens to make me
whole again.

There are always waiting spectors
as morning’s penumbra ripples
where chants of the mind play
to an audience of one.

They shape the mist as dawn
expands and connects each breath.
The weight of darkness lifts to
the edges of ether, emptying
the private hole of self.

Slowly, the hours
open to the hovering light,
the soft burn of the sun.
Like an instant between
seasons, the clot of darkness
dissolves.

There on the edges of wakefulness,
unexpected color breaks open silence,
dispersing the night’s assembly of ghosts.

Light flung down –
and something nameless
arrests the gaze –
the silhouetted hip,
an exercise in curves.
Woman or goddess ?
At her toilette,
no riches present –
god of love in chiaro scuro
holds a mirror where
imagination plays.
Her back turned, face blurred,
reclining Venus, illusive,
mysterious , tempting the eye
to desire, the mind to wander.

Autumn –the season named –
the end of each loud day
a wave in the voice of time.

The night’s gently gravity
reaches out for your shadow,
nostalgia’s chilled pattern
of longing.

Autumn and the land
is tinged with blood.
Time slows to a quiet
stream of moments.

Moonlight’s camber
turns to foreboding,
memory like pond-tarp
rises to the surface,
muddied forms escaping
capture.

Autumn’s moist gown of leaves,
the soft clock of earth signaling
its first chill. Your presence
lingeres in the beauty of decay.

Still, there are crevissesof light –
although a moss mosaic of sadness
inhabits the heart’s waterways,
in fragile drops of dappled light,
hope shines through.

I long…..
for the night’s youngest moon
when light’s palpitations stroke
immagination.

I long…..
for the gigantic, silent sky,
for dusk’s long erasure into
planet ink.

I long….
To have my eyes filled with stars,
to reveal the hidden image of
our essence where soft words
flow like dew…
And the journey to the end
of rhyme with love passing through.

I long…
for the hidden desire
of the dove’s coo, the nights
of lilac when our bodies,
like heaven and earth, embraced.

Thief of the dark, please come gently
to take your shadow’s nakedness.
There is time enough for tomorrow.