Summer's heat lingered in the sky,
The setting sun no longer bright,
Distant buildings like sentinels,
Were outlined in the dimming light.
  
Alone in my back balcony,
Nursing a dwindling glass of wine,
I felt a welcome breeze blowing,
Keeping the evening cool and fine.

A night plane winged across the sky,
Its twin lights blinking from afar,
I could see it drawing closer,
Twinkling like a lonely star.
  
And slowly I was drawn again,
To these thoughts of living and why,
All of us are here and there,
Beneath this lovely evening sky.

Shadows slide along

the tree line in the evening:


the wood gatherers.

the voyage of innumerable miles
furnished strength, of a thousand sails
guiding each yonder the reach
off to a boundless expanse
of the new tomorrow

in countenance
with arms outstretched
to tolerate contentment
to acclimate to the average
and want for far less
smiling

In the peace
and solitude of the room
I want to write one last poem
the candle searches diligently for fuel
soon I see the last glimpse of it's light

Just one more glass then
one last drink on this day
which slowly slides to her end
and morning light
may greet us tomorrow

The candle extinguishes
I am alone
and in the light of the moon
it is dark and quiet on the street
the poem is written
and it's time
to go to bed.

hot tea kisses nurtured
lips
and the morning is patient
and barely speaks.
cold hands are warmed
under bedsheets
and wordless admiration
silently exhales.
mundane tasks become
a thoughtful feat
and sitting by the fire at night
i flutter into a loving sleep.
gentle time passes
dotingly
for she knows of such innocent
longing.
satisfaction beyond peace embraces
day and night,
being is effortless here
there is no need to take flight.

The frost-feathered birches are a heavenly white,
knuckled and rigid as elderly spines,
Holy as naves and as filled with esteem
November announces my season of dreams

Long nights south to the tree and the lake
For happiness sake, and lying with stars
The comforting sounds of a million cars
Rubber on tar, rubber on tar

Flights of romance and my supper outside
A tangle of shadows fiercely flailing at my sides,
and over tables of oak
I am sat near silent others in their scarves and winter coats

They accompany me so, although none by invite
We are strangers breaking bread beneath a milky way of lights

Here where lofty leagues above, the storm begins to croon
Where fleecy clouds in motion seem to overtake the moon

In your palms, a lingering remnant of moonlight
traces your fingerprints,
And it illuminates shards of evening rain that have landed on your skin as droplets of hope.
Together a nebula is painted on your hands,

And you find tranquility in evening wakefulness.