the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind a storyteller.

are the stars and the sea
still there
when the sky weeps white?

the moon lights a bed of frost.
the wind is a storyteller

and the griffons know the failure
of flesh, flesh and bones

and feeling the bones
in my crooked nose,
I understand sunrise
is not a guarantee.

the sky weeps white.

but the nightingale sometimes
sings to me of you in my dreams.


...(if the nightingale sings of me
then know I hear her too.)

the cicadas slur their final words
of summer

from one side of the lake
to the other

a sedge of herons
is perfect

just above the water
all along

the green of the mountains
autumn

is already pecking its reds
and yellows

drift to any distance
and you will dance

through delight
and damage

i have been           loneliness
i have been           holiness

and i now know
the difference

~
The day was orange
The word is yellow
Out like a light switch
Teeth a steady glow

The projectile's
Crisscross trajectory
Is no kindness

In the catacombs of this mine
Watch it leak
Watch it settle

What remains is
Subterranea, urania
Built to last
A moment to inhale
Before fade to black
~

There are bones in the wood;
cracking, groaning, shattering.
The skeleton of what could
Have
            Been

There are bones in the wood;
whistling, wailing, whispering.
The skeleton is not pure—not good
It
            Still
                        Has
           ­                         Flesh

Through the olive groves
to the village that sleeps
beneath the mountain
the collapse of human
kindness is far from me
the language of nature
is universal
the wild birds only know
songs of wisdom
the Cypress tree leans
upon its intelligence
it only speaks of peace
it has witnessed the
tragedy of war
there is happiness in the
falling of leaves
there is acceptance
in the whisper of the
restless wind ...
Clay.M