Neighbors who walk our street
notice the ramp constructed
with the bend toward the driveway
is gone after only three days.  

New planks of pine
******* in place as a welcome
never greet the wheels
expected to transport him to familiarity,
to warmth, to man's best friend
and to the peace of returning home.

Cars gathered around the ramp-less walkway
like bees at blossoms drinking in bits of nectar.  
His children want a taste of him that lasts.

In anguish they rend their mental cloth
while missing a clasp from his creased palm.
Each offspring mulls over unfinished issues
with his lingering spirit.

In life his skilled hands crafted love
into objects made from sawlogs.
In death he leaves imprints of endearment
in the hearts of those left behind.

He treated her

like a princess

of a very

small empire.

It is one of those strange evenings
when orange clouds fill the sky.
It is an end of the day
when showers bring out
newspaper umbrellas
as people race to their cars
with an arm full of groceries.

A girl with wide hips and
soulful eyes walks her dog
unaware of my presence and
without notice of the blazing sky.

To her, I am transparent
as I stand on one leg
like a seagull perched
on a post in sea breeze
with a smile wide in hope
her eyes will find me
aching for her to ache for
me.

Without kneeling, without the sign of the cross
without self-examination
her worn keyboard becomes a confessional.
Lithe fingers tap, tap, tap out
secrets in lines of tasted desires
and opened dark doors.
With a series of deletions and replacements, key by key,
bolstered by the fervor of the moment
tales of her recent transgressions emerge.
Like a cat leaping toward it's victim
her index finger punches the enter key
as details of her indiscretions, come to rest on-line
as obvious as hunters' prey in an open field.  

Cyberspace, like a priest without a collar,
accepts her admissions without the comfort of absolution
still her guilt is released.

Perhaps they expect a pool
offerings of rare coffee
from Ethiopia

Instead of
a view of hydrangea
plus pale ale in mugs

Conversation entails
irrelevant niceties
of trivial events

Smiles exchanged
chairs rearranged
subtlety reigns

Another chance
to touch humanity
willfully aborted

You run through the left turn
U-turn to make a right
On 85 to home
Fighting constant deluge
Until first time in days
Sunshine mixes ahead
Mountains display beauty
Green on green and yellow
Undulating valleys
peaks pressed by rolling fog
Sifting white above creeks
Flushing nature's cleansing
If only rain carries sins
to the depths of south seas
leaving sweet redemption
sifted along the banks

Bed sheets sing a morning tune.
Outside two house wrens
announce daybreak.  
Snuggling near her lover’s cheek,
she brushes a stale kiss across his ear.  

He is her husband.
She likes to think of him as her lover.  
She mouths a good morning
before asking
why don't men come on to me anymore?  

Silence hangs like a pall over the bed.
Balancing on her elbow,
she searches his face
awaiting an answer.   

The wrens repeat their greeting.  
He recasts her question   
thinking she needs support.
“You wonder why men don’t come on to you?  
Because you are loved dear,
because you are loved.”