be soft as her skin
nor silken as her cheek
nor sapphire outshine her

Politics have no place on this wood porch ... This veranda
was made for welcome , red hued Dawns and indigo Dusk ..
For watching the colors of a Georgia Fall , for counting Red Winged
Blackbirds , listening to the chatter of ground squirrels ...
This old stoop is for lively conversation , for the sound of the Grand Ole
Oprey on Saturday nights , making strawberry ice cream and bragging
about my tomato plants ...
Singing babies and grand babies to sleep , for reading good books with hot tea ... For anyone to sit a spell and "Chew the fat with .."
For any man to rest awhile and be at ease , for being in love and shootin'
the breeze* ....

alarms going off
so our laziness
becomes the winged
  sun of day
prescient
more than yesterday

are the counting
  mechanisms,
the sand in glass
  the hour hand
last year's calendar

the trip-wire
  the species warning
call , the annoying fly
   wing buzzing

a simple thing or
   space with gravity
warping the starlight
into revealing

time is not
  for us, for me,
infinite,
   nor stored in

memory.

Sliver pens,
Dancing like figures,
Or shadows,
In the dim light of a sunset,
Coursing across his skin,
He muttered cursed words,
Under his breath,
As a dragons roar,
Soft,
Yet cold,
Like Winter's night,
Or a cool breeze,
Blowing leaves from the trees,
Onto the ground,
The silver pens,
Soon turn red,
As the paint,
As called blood,
Flowed from his canvas,
His wrist,
The burning sensation,
The feeling,
Of being dead