When did the day turn into night
while we sat idly by?
Horizons slipped beyond our sight
before we blinked an eye.

When summers came we romped all day
there was no end in sight.
Then winters we would slosh away
with nary a respite.

When late-day sun felt limitless
our hearts were always filled.
We had no plan to acquiesce
and yet the evening chilled.

When do we douse that single spark;
that joy to be alive?
Just as the twilight turns to dark
we lose the will to thrive.

When is the last time that we laugh
or take our final sigh?
From frolicking to epitaph
the crows no faster fly.

When does our soul take up in flight
across the narrow glen?
Up to a place so warm and bright
where we all meet again.

I have a cottage in the Alps
She is my destiny
When times are tough and nothing helps
She always comforts me.

I have no deed, no key, no claim
But she is surely mine
The mat shows someone else's name
But I'll be there in time.

Her meadow painted emerald green
So soft beneath bare feet
Bright alpine lilies fill the scene
My soul will be complete.

Tall peaks of Innsbruck to the East
Grenoble to the West
She feeds the eyes a lavish feast
She holds my mind at rest.

Dank ashcan heaps and subway grates
Comprise my current view
But patiently my cottage waits
I'll do what I have to.

The hands of fate will drag me out
Lift me across the sea
This fortune looms without a doubt
Because it's meant to be.

if thinking about you were a blanket, I'd have you covered for tonight
if walking with you were a candle, I'd have it burning bright
if holding your hand were a cradle, I'd rock it through the night
if remembering you were a capsule, I'd live forever on hindsight
if writing about you were reality, I'd make it see the light.

The great glacial climes of January
Absorbed the rays of the February sun
Yielding March droplets descending
Slanted slopes of April
Collecting to a shallow puddle of May
Steaming toward a June bog
Adjacent with the still swamp of July
Which rapidly flowed toward an August river
Forded off as a bitter stream of September
Slowing to the brook of October
Frozen by the calm chill of November
Halted upon a December dam.

Sam
wind-swept, strong-willed, free-spirited, butter-dipped
scion of this great nation-state
who loves sleeping until fully prepared for the confrontation of the bursting day, challenging the status quo, learning new secrets
who is afraid of the pall of mediocrity, the taste of plain blandness, premature decisions
who wants to see the fabric of the universe, proof of any empirical claim, the solemnity of what exists on the other side
resident of that which can be reliably demonstrated
Berman

I toil in anonymity
These words will not be read
You will not drink what's in this cup
These thoughts will not be said.

I'm buried on the internet
Far out of Google's reach
In basements stacked between thick tomes
No students will I teach.

I'm outside of your consciousness
My plight will draw no tears
I will not be anthologized
On passage of the years.

I shout among the swelling crowd
And blend into the hum
I'm heard here by myself alone
No more will I become.

Loves I have lost
Nights I have tossed
Encounters missed
Led me to This -

Streams you have crossed
Nights in the moss
Conquering fear
All led you here -

This work of mine
Now meets your eye
This the great troth
You and I both

As we walk the blazing black asphalt,
manicured and graded for modern passage,
we can scarcely imagine these same footsteps,
trod by General McClellan and traversed
by the very fugitives that he fought to free.

The civil peace was broken when the machinery came,
ripping railroad ties and spikes from her gut,
erasing and smothering the Confederate footsteps,
gentrifying the mud for our convenience,
replaced by the smooth tar of unification.

This new Mason-Dixon did not divide peoples;
it conected communities.

Now on our bikes we don our spandex and lycra in Alexandria -
no shoveling of coal for this engine -
with a sip of our energy elixir,
whizzing over the Sycolin bridge and past Tuscarora Creek,
quickly turning around in Purcellville for the return trip.

Yesterday was the last day of Summer
September rain pounds like the inevitable drummer

We planned on scaling the Shenandoah mountains just before sunset
our calves aching and our hands clenched tightly yet
intertwined with each other
inhaling the rich color
lamenting how it disappears behind the horizon to forget

We talked of driving along that scenic Smoky mountain byway
stumbling into a local diner off the highway
the first expedition to fathom
sleeping in that rustic cabin
breathing in dying cedar embers as we drifted away

We intended swimming that final night at the Lakes pool
diving under the water when lifeguards whistled their final rule
pretending that we could not hear
trudging into the car with dripping gear
leaving behind damp seats as concerns for some future fool

But there was the appointment about the lipoma
and the tele-con with the customer in Tacoma
opportunities come slowly but hasten to pass over

Today is the first day of Autumn
We should do something in Autumn

When Christy comes
A setting sun rises
Whirling traffic hushes
Birds sing new tunes
Children gather
In the courtyard
To catch a glimpse
Of our first kiss
Hearts beat faster
Faces glow
Nothing else matters
Time stands still
As we embrace
Lovers pray for
Eternal happiness
Nights of passion
And true world peace
They would feel
Them all fulfilled
If they were here
When Christy comes

I saw a star tonight and then I Wished -
     Not those same certain wee small wishes sure
     but Wishes, like we whisper into wells
     and such sweet thoughts now strand me without sleep
     and scarcely strength to write these winsome words.

I saw stars shine tonight and then I pined -
     That we could be together for all time
     Not just in time and place, but in our minds
     and life would cease to be cruel and unkind.

I saw the heavens gleam tonight and dreamed -
     We cruised the Caribbean for a week
     Then all the others returned to their lives
     but we remained aboard - eternity
     and never dwelled on all we left behind.

I saw a streetlamp fade tonight and prayed -
     That soulmates can grow closer while apart
     and love can be so strong it never dies.

I saw the winter sky tonight and sighed -
     For time gone by
     And wondered why
     You're not by my side.

I saw a starstruck view tonight and knew -
     It is all true
     for me and you.

When I tugged you
in the little wagon
with the wobbly wheel,
to our private playground
on Hyland Hills,
faint laughter an acre away
You swung sweeping arcs
and leapt toward the sky
with such courage and grace
that I am certain is unmatched
by the young Mayan hunter
And my joy of the moments -
slivers of history -
spent together with you
burst my weak heart
like the ancient seas
swelled from the sorrow
that moments cannot last.

A misty rain grew to a drizzle
and you had no choice
but to scamper to the wagon
for our long trip home.

Little azalea
on the corner;
You gave me quiet joy
year after year.

I promised you;
vaguely, as I scampered past
that one day I would snap your picture,
crop it just so
press you in a tender frame
and adorn you
above the fireplace
or in the gentle gazebo
watching as we sip lemonade
and murmur about the weather.

But you have withered
and your buds no longer clasp the dew.

I told you that it was no matter;
that the picture will always live
in my mind.
Yet my memory fades
and I can't even recall
that subtle twist of your fresh limbs
and what was that shade of pink?

I must confess to you
that in the Spring
I will plant a little azalea
above your cracked, buried, splintered bones
and scamper past to hang a dimestore sketch
of some nameless azalea
in the gazebo.