The long branches hang down so softly,
From the great tree that surrounds us,
With many branches, yet unfolding, softly
Like a curtain, in the wind, that never closes
All the way, nor opens to the sides of the stage,
Leaving dark those places that seem rare and alone.
The hidden people look and watch from silent slumber
Their feelings gone and their faces blank,
As they watch the happenings there,
They see the tree as it grows firmly down and strongly upward,
Until the branches rest among the clouds,
And the grass grows deeper and darker
As the clouds fill the sunlit sky;
Making the vision soft and raining
And the branches fall downward, and loop their gazers
And the tree grows and stands tall
As the stage door closes...
The actor walks out of the scene,
The tree stands alone upon the stage
Its roots growing deeply, breaking the boards
It waves a gentle wave
As the wind finds it,
It becomes itself,
Slow.

Near silent, the sound of water split,
By the keel of a masterful helm,
The shine of the wheel in the cool eves' sun
Reflects perfect rigging, secure to the turn.

A soft billowy ride, water and sail
All clouds of contentment from a masterful helm,
Not a ripple or wave crease the strong hull
And the wind pulls the full sail in tow.

The flash of white waters crest over the bow,
Mother Wind in her prerogative change
Mighty crash as she breaks over wild wave
Listing to gunnels, wave upon wave.

Tack end and turn, jibe, pull the main
Button to a masterful helm
Bring her steady deep keel, love the wind
Stow the lines, such cause for the love of a sail.

Cross the surf, broken white
In tiny splash, sprinkling bow and pulpit
The small prow, driving forward to the main
Catches the quick wind.

The Amitie sits anchored twice,
Its hull by sand, shoved round its keel,
The high tide line stretched
Slack across barren beach to hooked cast iron.

The fisherman mourns today, life is gone
From Amitie, small daughter lost.
The paint of her namesake fades
While gunnels dry in early summers sun.

Tomorrow she will be out again
Loosed with tide, beyond the surf
Families still need fed, fish need caught
The money to trade for the living.

Feeling ever as a roof of clear light,
Painted with fragile strokes
Not a pale blue on bright gold
But with a touch of haze to temper.

Somewhere between brilliant and depressed
Lies the Van Gogh sky,
Broken by a solitary gull
Fishing where fishermen have been.

Removed from its place, a stained glass window
Turned over, the hull of a mighty ship
Held where painted, its expanse forever
At least to the edge of the frame.

A thousand brushes on plain white,
Left to right, small drops, imperfections
Leading the eyes to feel,
Feeling an honest reality.

The gate is hidden in ivy, thick
Ropes, both alive and dead
Providing trellis for new growth, always
Leaving room for the gate.  Arched
Top of weathered oak, so keenly
Shadowed underneath, one key to
The secret of my secret garden
        Never Locked,
                   No Need,
                        No one goes there but me.
The doorway cut in hollow blocks
Some turned up, others down
A mosaic of solids and holes;
Triangle holes where small breaths
Of citrus air sneak past, to scent
And blend with vine and flower
Large and small, brilliant shades,
         Fresh turned earth,
                   Nostrils full,
                       With sweet privacy.
Walls, much taller than my head
Surround the inner area
One north; a mass of solid stone,
One south; holding the gate in its arms,
One west, staying the evenings sun
One east, open every other stone
With the beams of Sol cutting through
           Giving life,
                   Living Light,
                        Make my garden alive.
Well worn bricks in connecting
Circles, still damp at noon
From dawns' quick cleanings.
My feet in soft soles, never disturbing
By tick or clacking a fear in
The blue-jays and redbirds
Perched on the ancient carved stones
            Worshipful,
                    Quiet though singing,
                               Singing for me.
The oak bench, painted only
With rains of many seasons
Polished seat and back, smooth as
Sanded, with the fabric of trousers and shirts
My body reclined in respite,
A few hours, a few minutes
Stolen from the demands of others,
             Everyday demanding,
                      Draining the quiet,
                            Chipping at the walls of my garden.
A damp perspiration
Slips down the inside of my shirt,
My face is washed in the afternoon sun
Alone, finally alone,  pulling useless weeds
Impeccable manicure, attempting perfection.
Maniacal fervor must find a place,
A place where one can think,
                A place of my own,
                       of my making,
                            My secret garden.

Careful plot of line and form,
Perfections drawn shapes to blend
The face as a porcelain doll
Cast in a light robe backdrop.

Long neck white, unblemished
Tender to touch and eager
Traced lines to ******* still pink
Untouched by nursing strains.

Simple straights, lingering curves
To legs of runners envy
And feet carved by the artists old
With eyes a tempting, piercing cold.

Colors washed from imaginations palette,
Leave the sculpture bare and cold,
Oh the minds near dreaming
Can touch each sense through seeing.

The green lawn flows out from my feet as
Shallow sea water rolling over wave.
Manicured to the nth, each blade cut precise
A carpet growing to the sun.

To my sides swathed in carpet
Loved ones held dear, forever with me
In this strange and new world, never
Speaking, only keeping, the vigil in silence.

At my head, tight cut granite
Bears my name, a few facts
Leaving to insignificance
The significance I once had.

Beyond; ancestors, all in silent repose,
Waiting for something.  Dressed in their finest
Metals and woods, linked to the soil
Locked neath this green flowing lawn.