Eastern towhee flits along garden edge
picking here and there
its movements assumed to be  
intentional to casual observers
who imagine a search for food
or a gathering of sprigs for a nest.

Last night was a mystery;
a kiss, then a hug followed by a tirade
seemingly without a purpose.  
Was there intent to hurt,
to inflict an invisible ****
deep inside her chest?

Cowbirds leave their eggs in towhee nests
expecting the towhee to hatch them.
The cowbird knows its purpose.

Unlike the bird, he seems unaware
that consequences ride
on the back of his behaviors
like mites cling to a wing.

He wanted to assert himself
to make clear his desires.
He didn't intend to wound her heart.

Nature's contributions cascade along the steep trail.

Numerous white patches and yellow splotches

set on a blanket of green

amid immense coverings

so blue that it seems parts of the sky have fallen.  

Pinks protrude like boulders in a creek

while reds try to hide around rocks and crevasses.

Faded petals,

past announcements of spring

now reside alongside signs of birth,

buds seeking an identity.

Arrays of mature blossoms parade full and ripe

along a path of short lives and slow deaths.

Fallen relics, grey and mossy

display across the emerald carpet,

a memory of another time.

Some afternoons are sublime
beyond scripting
splendid blue colors the sky
and my lover's lips
taste like dripping honey

Some nights I hear the mantle
clock tick and music sounds
sweeter than it has since
those nights in New Orleans

Some mornings are like those artists paint
of sunshine shimmering on the water
my darling's presence seems
like a celebration without
the need of a parade

Some days are unique
love is easily earned
I can sit near my beloved
and watch love grow

Tornados excite, attract
become a vortex for life
A swirl of busy days
sleepless nights
and nagging headaches --
voices from the head
spread the guilt --
plenty to go around

Our grandparents strew the seeds
our parents cultivate the crop
feeding us the fruit
We taste and devour, seldom does
ripe yield rot on the vine

Cherish moments when energy
pumps from wells
special drinks to ****** us
after our passions, our goals
Cherish moments when
we forge ahead
free from remorse

Hesitant to step close to empathy,
he is unwilling to face fear's barren landscape
veiled with affective danger.  

Struggling, tempted to jump into affectations
lurking within the knowledge
that life is now.

What justifies talk of one's soul,
or eternity, or lament
when the moment is here,
rich and full around us.

If one dwells long enough
fragility advances.  Is fading towards
expiration a blessing?  Or, is preference
a lightning bolt ride to the hereafter
without the faculty to write a goodbye?

Reflect death's terror, it's trepidation
and stay with the present  final moment to be won.

What plays most on his mind
is her mulish way and
how her stubborn words roll
off her scarlet tongue --
She's intractable.

When forehead crevasses interrupt her
softness like a fog cast over
the morning meadow,
only love can  
subdue her argument.
She's intractable.  

There is a mountain of
dissent to scale for him
to touch her tenderly.
Her noisy defiance
remains endearing to those
untouched by her resilience.
To others, she's intractable.

There is just enough morning sunlight
filtering through the english laurel
for aging eyes to capture the purple tint
of carnations blooming
in the front of the rocks
jutting toward the porch

Night-time had been colorless
in the midst of a celebration
announced by a sign signaling
an event in the main ballroom

With a loud voice
a long-named minister
toyed with religion
and flirted with comedy
before the silverware
clanged against the china

Boredom captured the moment
in the middle of the clatter and chatter
Even stunning silks and satins
around bodacious behinds
failed to entertain

Now perhaps the oldest in the crowd
he carefully quenches each desire
to know the delicacies of the evening
with the efforts of survival.  He was slowly
dying in the madness of the crowd