In the still churchyard,
a blood-red blossom—
April morning.

Eagle circling wide,
winding smaller toward the sun
and milky blue clouds.

the clouds tonight
once white, floating in blue skies
reappear
in the dark, in the light
from a waning moon

Sugar sprinkled
    across a licorice sky—
        the stars!

Record heat in a busy neighborhood…

Shimmering sun
    crowding the white sidewalk
        with emptiness.

A small pond forms
    from the tiny patting hands
        of the spring raindrops.

Cactus flower thorn
divides a falling raindrop
in two.

new flowers
of a color never seen
hinting tiny bells
ringing in the brilliant sun
chasing away the clouds

Leaves just turning—
streaks of sun part somber clouds,
warm against sharp wind.

Brown bee walking
    across a crowded sidewalk—
        I would use my wings.

from high in the trees
crows are screaming their secrets
keeping off the grass

some gray clouds some white
some are higher than others
some have no idea

Gusty wind
carrying the scent of the sea
far from the ocean.

Garland of green leaves,
    wearing a sash of ivy--
        Oak, crowned prince of trees.

Blackbird couple--
    shopping under the rose bushes
        and sun-broken clouds.

Now open to rain,
fire took the back of his home—
someone hammering.

blinding white blossoms
too bright for the mid-day sun
save for a new moon

a surprise cloudburst
in shoes not made for raindrops
Kurosawa rain

tiny pine cones
scattered beneath branches
pockets full of trees

first shy wildflowers
peeking out from the grass
glad bashful children

When I was a boy,
I lived near wilderness,

and on cold, bittersweet,
windy-sky days
I sometimes ventured out by myself

to sit
and feel
and smell
the crisp wind,

and I could feel myself

in the trees,
in the sharp,
rotted-quartz rocks

and the red clay earth.

Hot, skin-kneed summer--
blue violets in welcome shade;
white sun raining down
mightily on fresh cow ****
and the green, new-mown hay.

where once was singing
a fallen wren’s nest baking
on sunny blacktop

First white butterfly—
    are you looking forward
        to summer?

Through my window,
    no moon over Mt. Tabor—
        swoosh of passing cars.

rising late
the moon wanes gibbous
outdoing itself tonight

pretending to be full on the inside
it glows burnt umber round the edges

deflated, ghostly soft
eerily misshapen

the sky around it misty
like the air surrounding streetlights
on a summer evening

it shines on us who were here before
it shines on us coming later

it looks down on us now
as though it had some kind of authority

rainy day
no one in the park
except a jaybird
hopping around a bush
happy to be himself

Tall, top-heavy pine
displays its fine head to the clouds—
they pay no attention.

A musty feel for the ancient
Took possession of this child
     of Virginia,
Where every field of play
Was a field of ghosts from
     the dying battles’
Dripping carts, dripping air,
     dripping red earth,
And the dripping sun’s slant
     in Fall.