Stars, brilliant, yellow and white, they pierce the total black dome arching over the trees.
Campfires spew sparks, dragons fly and jump to meet the stars,
Miniature electric lights; a spritely accent around the RVs.
Night choristers, peeping, honking voices dispelled by dawn
Morning light creeps up
Dew
Dripped, rivulets ran down the side of the tent
Campfires, lit anew
Pancakes, sausage, oatmeal.
Noon
the heat of the sun bakes the ground, dew dispelled.

I am captive to the blank page before me.
Unable to write.
I cannot free myself from ink squiggles, text in straight lines;
My feelings are mute; the white page - frozen silence.
The words - forced out of the ice;  knocking an ice tray against the kitchen counter.
The cubes later clank to  cool a glass of juice or wine.
Dissolution,  icy essence melting,  relations in the world.
Feelings blocked in- cubes until they are released from white boxy space.
Force fields of Electric power keeps them frozen. Then the cubes, released, melt and cloak the glass in perspirative  beads, crystal on crystal.
Release of emotions, the beads puddle on the table and the floor, my eyes too perspire until I see no more only feel the cool trace on my face.

The clear piping of a robin rang above the quiet of the sleepy morning street
A distant conversation of neighbors drifted through the open door;
Faint voices, murmurs, tones, fell into repose.
Silence threw her cloak of repose through the trees and shrubs.
Small breezes whirled, the rushing air stirred up the silvery backs of maple leaves
Silence returned all to stillness.
Then again the robbing piped
As it had piped before
Long ago, when
In my bed as a youngster, the sweet smell of early morning hay
Drifting across the fields, freshly cut alfalfa melded into the dew.
The timeless songster sings yet to guide me to eternity.

The summer morning was broken by your song.
You called down the rain

Early in the October morning the green grass of the park lay cold, still; frosted into immobility.

Golden sunlight crept up into the chilled air, slowly emerging out of hiding from behind surrounding houses,
And spread its welcome mat across the autumn leaves.
High above the sky’s blue dome shouted, joy! Then, embraced the golden light.

A fount of grace pouring out into my backyard,
I found there,
There was such a buoyancy to the arching lines,
There was a wild cherry tree blooming,
its scent loaded the air,
filled my nostrils with its bouquet.
Trumpeted its whiteness to the blue sky
The sound was deafening,
glissandi of softness,
felled all gloom,
felled my fears,
and filled my soul with joy.

Tree Talk

In Spring, the trees around my house chatter in tinkling and tremulous voices.
In Spring, the trees around my house chatter in tinkling and tremulous voices.
In Summer, the talk turns to song,
     High and low, their voices speak of Sun, Rain and Dew.
      Chattering spreads far, regarding trivia and nonsense.
In Fall, as leaves drop in yellow spirals,  
the talk speaks of loss and in gathering.
In Winter, their sonorous voices speak slowly of snow and ice,
As winds hurl their blasts through spidery fingers spread against the lowering sky.
Talk at night, then turns to deep thrumming and of drama, tragic loss, slowly ceasing.
Chatter, trivia, loss, ceasing.