Where would we be
without the ******,
the flare 'n ripple
that cups to meet
but in duty
never truly mates?

I date myself.
A rotated heel
in spring soil
grooves an
agate pocket.
Marbles, glassies, boulders
and an instructional introduction
that life is a matter
of skill, bluster and chance.

My fortune
to abide
& be witness
to a dynamic sky
against a ripple of defining mountains.

A thought had me
but melted away
then another
that failed
to hold my attention
then another for just a second
that promised
insight
that vapoized
into a scattered inattention.

A thought had me
but melted away
then another
that failed
to hold my attention
then another for just a second
that promised
insight
that vapoized
into a scattered inattention.

The till
of majestic mountains
trail to the sea,
as my thoughts of you
break off and tumble
through time
that merges the sacred
and inexorable forces
that will collectivize creation
back to a Time sub zero
Inverse
of unimaginable demensionless pointedness.

Leading sounds of spring
Are now preceding the season.
Scattered platoons of yardmen
clunk aluminum ladders
that thunk debris littered roof gutters,
bang a size range of galvanized nails
into an exterior catalogue of materials
needing attentive appending.
The leaf blowers, the leaf blowers
exhausting NASCAR level roars
attempting to push back
last fall/winter into their calendared slots.
And the first nice day Harleys
rumble distantly along the gorge road below.