Long shadows sandwiched between a biting breeze and a not quite wet damp black tarmac.

The end of colour intense time, echoing summer and spring's past,
pulling eyes to the grey mute hues of sky and tree.
A subdued stating of its intent to last.

Year-end approaches, celebration looms, competing the grey with a triumph that brings change towards gentler tones.
And a lightness,
seemingly lost in the yearly cycle.

The scent of spring once hidden beneath the diminishing decay of autumn and winter's contribution brings a bright hope forecasting a weathered change.

The beat of the yearly cycle quickens adding strength and tempo to my own hearts quickening with a prospect of longer days.

I thought I was your captive
Like being struck through the heart, like lightning, like time
That rises away
Past a roof
And slips across
A higher landscape,
A different neighborhood

A silence that exists only in small noises
The humming of birds, the beach, the buzzing of the sea
The luminescence of another world,
the beat of the heart,
dawn and evening;
falling silent snow.

If any of these sounds open
Do they become roads
Become flowers
Behind walls
That seize the original heart
through some alternate pathway, via some underground stream

Night opens
Like stars
And that
Which is like
The sky
Between you and me
Songs of April
Songs of May

April.. you were a sweet reminder
of the joyous oath of spring—
Slowly but surely,
coaxed the cold to give in..
I have this theory:
Yours are the days
love nests to begin.
Call it cliché, that’s the way it must be
Scented your days are with blossom;
Roses and hope in bloom and in glee!

My, my, May!
you were so good to me!
You may as well be
my favourite of the three!
Your daylight hugs feel so sincere;
Quick-witted, heart-warmth breeze;
Birdsongs are echoes of
Family laughs and cheers—
May, please— I’m on my knees!
Like a lover that’s bright,
And made just for me—
The rest of the year I’ll be craving your heat!

A little dramatic,
But June, don’t despair!
Handle your grace
and sun-varnished grass trace,
Don’t be shy—bring lilac skies;
Let’s walk in warm sand,
I’ve got you by the hand.
No doubt at all, but pure delight,
You are already opening
beautifully right !

Spring came and went quickly this year,
a brief headache as the air
pressure shifted and then
the sun came in. And then
the Summer came in.
Too hot and too dry. Too busy.
The hustle and bustle of
sweaty people who wear too
little and talk too much.
This season is no good
This season is no good at all.

It will be a bad day today.
A bad week perhaps.
A bad month. Too hot and
too dry. Demanding.
Taxing. The machines
not working, the people
not stopping. Hate. Hate. Hate.
It is ungodly how much hate
one can feel towards the
changing of the skies,
and all who abide by it.
Hate in the nanoangatrom,
unequal to one one-billionth.

There is no season shorter than Summer,
not here. Spring and Autumn
stagger themselves: a birth
and a death, spread out across
two months or more.
And Winter lingers, clings;
it doesn’t easily let go.
Summer is Summer once
and then it’s done.
Summer is Summer for a day
a week, a month,
and then it’s not.
And yet it stretches.
An eon, an age,
eternal, hot and dry,
unable to sleep; unable
to stay awake,
a sort of purgatory –
long days and short nights.
No end. No end. No end.

And so, wait, a day, a week,
a month, on and
on, over and over,
until around comes Autumn.
The leaves browning,
the blossoms falling.
A decay that spreads,
the beautiful kind:
soft on the eyes,
on the soul. Breathable.
A breathable decay.
October again; slow, calm.
Blossoms falling. Slow. Slow.

And a thought, soft
like the growing clouds and
the promise of snow,
a thought that lingers, that
fades in, that leaves a stain:
    if today is not a good day
    then make it one.
The trees are bare now, there’s
room for more. Room
for you, to hang
and dangle, snap and
crumple, to drift gently down
like falling blossom slowly
into a heap on the ground,
buried in pink or white,
buried in the death of Summer,
in the death of Spring.

Individual
Drops of rain syringe the tips
Of long pine needles.