wild blueberries sprout in houses I’ve never been -
dusty rose candles illuminate oak boards like cherry blossom spring -
childhood dogs nest into your side -
with a sister you’ve never met sleeping across -
so close your hands could touch.

dried babies breath spray the corners of collaged vases -
newspaper scraps of 1992 -
lives lived like perfect texts -
stories imbued in every tree ring from the wedding cake stand, the lace, the cotton, the wool and cashmere and canopies and love of orchids, living unapologetically, ferns clouding the periphery of the yard where earth worms and potato bugs and lilac and lily of the valley call native ground.  

it’s easier to write of them,
wanting nothing than to be had,
having nothing but to want,
wanting everything yet nothing at all.

the sunlight tilts, rabbits play at dusk.  follow the tunnel of ferns -
the scent of green lushness opens forest floor.  
crows gather, cicadas hum.  stars come out one by one by one.  rather - eyes adjust -
we tilt, sway under ceramic bowl sky -
the earth eclipses the sun
living in totality or utter absence

we are not alone :
life is - indeed - the exception.

Dark night, dumb fright, furry foxes howl
Shy moon, hides soon, barn owls sharply call
In thickets, chirp crickets, mew nervous cats
Above meadows, paint shadows, low flying bats.

From soiled bones, rise the moans, of souls buried deep
Clothed white, in low skylight, you hear a spectre weep
The cottage light, now out of sight, the dark is denser still
You want to run, to safe someone, but frozen is freewill.

A few furlong, but seems so long, now turning back
Your heavy feet, can't do the feat, finding the right track
You can't run, you'll be outdone, and it's not a myth
When you move too far, break the bar, winds stop their breath.

The hood of dark, makes its mark, you're nomore seen
It's too late, to change the fate, not let the fear win
You forget fright, dive into night, it's turned a good game
A foxlike howl, a hooting owl, you're happily one of them.

When the sky was blue on a windless day
the net would stretch they itched to play
the racquets rose and fell in grace
smash and volley in quickened pace.

The three boys ran the hardest race
there was a girl they must impress
among them was the beauty queen
that stole the heart burned the skin.

The wintry noon passed pretty soon
on the blue birthed a crescent moon
a clap from the girl was reward enough
those times of life were fairytale stuff.

On the court in that playful bliss
each boy dreamed the girl was his
by the racing clock went past the days
the field fell empty they parted ways.

I'm listening to the house ,
the popping of the joists ,
the groans from years of delapidation . The arguing
with local foundations .

Age has its benefits in the forms of doors as they no longer stay moored to the walls but swing in indecision like the fools who stand in perpetual obsolesence .

Where then do my thoughts propel my rudderless oblivion ?
My angst , the thumb in many dikes , leaves me as powerless before the mass of my desperation .

How dare the Ghosts of daylight leave me marooned in the shadow of shadows .

I am confused and challenged by the hidden agendas and secret subpoenas of an alien race of thought .

And were I capable of burying the haunting images , would they not
sprout from my seeds of discontent and flourish
yet greater than before ?

. . . evidently so .

I don't remember a thing.

It's filth everywhere
and pollution the King.

Wait,
Cuckoos don't forget.

They sing in the joy of Spring!

Attired in their best
bloom amid the doom
the Flames of the Forest!

From the walls
photos of long dead
stare at you.

In the old house
the living keeps space
to hang a frame
with his name.