Most mornings are spare,
Like the spaces between the branches of a spruce tree.
Most mornings are clearings in woods
And bare bark.
Most mornings sound of violins
And Torquil Campbell’s voice swooning in and out of Bach’s Suites,
Leaving you empty,
Hueing you in gray,
And sketching you, lightly, onto white notebook paper.

You look at me
With windswept eyes
So blue beneath
The brooding skies
Emotions like
The storm front brewing
Flit across your face
Your voice now hueing
Fragile beauty
Rarely seen
The paradox
Of what is/what’s been
It’s in the transition
That we meet
Painted skies
And feelings deep

riding the lame horse
hueing rotten wood

losing in this world
as only losers could

the Empire rages on
thinking that it should

but truth is in the silence
and the Silence is the Good.

Hueing rotten wood
      more couldn’t now than could
                         ambiguous the should ...


     on the lame horse, yet stay the course

               thus, meeting Robin Hood.