(The) secret snows
Of mind’s eye winter
Cloak the oaks
In ice and cinder

Crystal columns
Cracked and broken
Meditate to
Spells unspoken

Twilights rise
And angels fall
As frozen fogs
Through caverns crawl

Night creeps through
The hush of hands
Stretched toward heaven’s
Distant sands

Cottage fires
Laugh and dance
Across a sea
Of trees entranced

Voices whisper
Tales of magic
Conjuring
Both bold and tragic

Hot spring waters
Foam and glisten
Passing pilgrims
Pause to listen

(The) secret snows
Of mind’s eye winter
Still the land
Yet glow like glitter

The queen of the coffee house
Sips away at her hot drink,
Looking quite royal as she banters
With her equally regal girlfriend.
She sports a Greek goddess armband
And the dress of a Spanish gypsy.

The queen of the coffee house
Wears a pendant of gold
Which rests halfway between
Her belly button and her chin,
Nestled neatly among
Curly locks of sunshine.

The queen of the coffee house
Reclines on hillsides at sunset,
Stretched across Persian linens,
Eating pomegranates and vines of grapes,
Whispering sonnets into the wind,
And strumming French folk tunes on an antique ukulele.

Actually, the queen of the coffee house
Appears to be a business major,
With such words as “stock” and “invest”
And “income” and “finance”
Bleeding across the room from her table.
So much for the whole gypsy thing.

Turquoise rivers flow
From the frozen heart of the mountains
Along the road that stretches asphalt arms
Upward and upward toward the sun.

Tourists savor cans of beer
In the turnoffs.
Some of them are jerks,
And decorate nature with their trash.
Some of them are not jerks,
And put their waste in receptacles
While going “ooh” and “ah”
At goats.

Glacier is a place
For dreamers,
And fools,
Like me.

The iris of your eye
Is the iris of the field
Ticking to the tock of the tire swing’s
Strawberry lemonade hypnosis

The pupil of your eye
Is a pupil of the universe
Breathing in all the wisdom and the heartbreak
Like a little black hole sponge

The sclera of your eye
Is the blinking white lights of the Ryman
Illuminating Hartford’s most exquisite fiddle solo yet
Projected down from the great riverboat in the sky

The lashes of your eye
Own the sliding boards at dusk
After all the children have heeded the dinner bell
And the rains roll in from the west

The tears of your eye
Remember your dancing days
Before the war took its toll
And youthful drops of dew still rested upon the irises

Camping lantern
Swinging to the sway
Of the labyrinth pine tree breeze

Camping lantern
Bobbing to the throb
Of the great grass firefly seas

Camping lantern
Beating off the hordes
Of forest ghouls until morn

Camping lantern
Flickering goodbye
As the first rays of new day are born

Neighbor Jon has come
to grace my flat
with hollow body guitar meanderings,
working the old rocker
like waves at the seashore.

Big chords come at high tide,
washing up under the boardwalk
as we board the haunted house car.

Small pluckings roll in at low tide,
when we take the little children into the breakers,
breaking them in to the concept
of salt water sea foam
for the first time.

Neighbor Jon
is the upstairs patron saint
of guitar tides.

A position he is about to accept.