In the Ocean

The sea strums my hair
inks my dry paper-armor,
kisses softly all the sheen
off my bones,
unwinds all their breath
on a tear-tasseled kite,
a shell-ripple wind soaking
into the sky.

Then it leaves me
where it sifts in the sand,
seeps coldly into me
away from its long, wide pulse
before it is found;
my sleep scatters in its sigh
as it breaks my words, so
small
in the hollow of its roar,
on gleaming silver scales
heaving against my heart.

Roses of Summer

My shade sits quiet here,
its heartbeat a branch drawing
in the sand around embers,
faint in my unwrapped eyes,
too low for the lights to brush.

I wonder if I am ill with you,
if this rushing wind I send
across my harp-strung sky
should stray in rest and clasp
your warm hands,
and trickle to you.

But while I am here, dear
if I may find you I fear
I know not your hand-
the last bloom of this vine
indeed
closes fast without it.

Summer Belongs Here

The earth falls in me;

heavy pieces of rain-

spring, sneaking in

on silver tap shoes

through young skirts of mist.

A sea of cottons drowns

all but the shadow sky- and me-

who lies

with eyes to fly away,

on lashes the wings of moths,

a sweet, paper pair

rapping at my button cottage door.

A hollow of butterflies,

filled with the pulse of the sun-

it ripples in my ear, tell me to go

where they have been

on wings of gold lace, silver strings

faster than any sea.

A whole world of leaves-

through the dry window

on the wings of a lost fly-

a story made for empty air.

The heart of the earth is a broken star,

bare as the rare, unarmed evergreen

hiding behind yellow feather hands-

yet it coaxes a lullaby

into a body as open as the wind.

Light Summer Night

Even heavy firs awake

in the moment, the pinprick,

the right measure

long plucked from wind.

Old henna lattices open,

deep veins staining through;

a strange, rich calligraphy

to pressed flower sky.

Deep as teardrop symphonies,

spherical mysteries grow

opal fingers, thin as ice,

to clamp fistfuls of light.

The dry square matchboxes

(where old souls hide)

catch in full fire, a dance

to fall on en pointe shadows-

dry, fresh rivers, runways

to and from the air.

Every branch, every scar of smoke

remembers to fly,

remembers to grow thick plumes

in old peacock green, beetle brown;

Every flower already blown alight,

the sweet air is full of flight.

Beyond Magnolias

The sky opens widest,
Shy of any return, dancing
at the edge of another complete
Being.
Nobody watches, so slowly
when all the softness goes
seeping into ground.

Color walks forth, shedding
any and all pretense, shining
brighter than ever before;
The world is really still
when colors cease to quarrel, the best
of all shades shed the same.

Take another step back,
See the cotton thread wind
pulling all of us round, away-
Sheerer than any quiet sky,
they race down the horizon
in neck to neck harmony.

Aligning Souls

We walk in silence, not fear-
Simple splashes of vibrant blossom
Grace, fall so faintly
To the empty eyes of Far Away.

We walk in comfort, not certainty-
The fragrance abundant, filling
Its own admiration, stops
Before any devotions (still impossible).

We walk in truth, not luxury-
This spring won't always be
Quite so teeming, so merciful-
The breeze blows sweet, indecisive.

We walk softly, not rippling
Our water lily roots-
They sink beyond the painting,
Fall to endless watercolor ponds.

May It Be

Find me in the summer's end,
When dreams have had their fill,
Eating at the irony- long
Abandoned by my will.

When time is bitter, lost to chance,
(Silent parley, so it fell)
That I should still be me,
And still you know me well.

Hold me like it's sunset
And little shall we know,
How moments aim to spare,
And miss to overflow.

Magnolia Tree (IV)

Shadows bathe, low and warm
Harmonies to the shy new light.
Leaves droop, but behold revelry-
They are a garish, fluttering green.

Such is the rare moment, reservation-
Nature's finest face in modest veils,
Pale peculiar pearls of creamy sheen-
Carved, exquisitely layered,
In thick chains of light and shadow.

Like a garment well made, it lasts-
Four seasons, still a fresh sensation.
Simply, the spotlight quickens elsewhere,
An audience still unsought.

The Setting of the Sun

Shadow runners
Carpet polished sky,
Late sunset
Muffled,
Not blooming
In all the draping trees.

Still foliage flickers
Still trees,
Still hedges,
All brace against
The fall of the day.

Night is the real surprise,
Sweeping black satin
Trail of a dancing dress;
Restless, but sure of foot.

Sampler Memory

Shards of faded calico,
Prints alive
Upon a cotton square.

The blues,
Dyed by seeping spring;
An evening sky of indigo
The nightly rain did bring.

Reds, yellows
Upon a gambling eve!
Greens, preserve,
The fall in turn receive.

But the sun, seamstress
Scorns the novice sky.
All threadbare lessons
Until the spring comes by.

Delayed Advance

A strange maneuver,
Dangling the sun
So high, a pendulum
Upon the marble stair:

Cloud, no longer heavy;
No laughter raining down,
Then booming reprimand.

Thin relief nets now,
Draw sweeping arcs,
Supple foliage
Still fat with dew.

Yet, all the world surrenders,
Arms open
As chains of hazy cloud
Bow away.

Understated Sunset

Summer cocks its sepia head,
The colors of the day
Seeping to a last-minute question.

What if?

Should the dry woven plot,
That lattice after days,
Have once been reeds
Bent,
Rooted against
The current of the sky.

Late Blooming Irony

Late spring peppered on a bough,
Whispered words, ghosts
Upon a woven pool;
Hung in the silent leaves,
Eavesdropping
For a story all its own:

A glorious rose of the moment,
Extended for a wiry time.
No expected blush
Nor freshest pride.

But a last fray, alone,
For curious blythe sweeping
In a gown too plain.

It never quite caught summer's eye,
Racing through, beckoning,
Thornless,
From a sheer shadow.

Summer Patchwork

A refuge, equal need and deed
Unsure of how to sleep,
Its patchwork quilt of memory
Too many seasons keep.

Just half a canvas short, perhaps,
Of pressed pastoral dreams,:
A summer harvest bloom and ripe-
But deserts at its seams!

A country autumn, postmarked, then,
That splatters humble groves,
The waiting smiles of cinnamon
That crackle at late stoves.

But shores that whisper close to home,
And not two months away,
Can bake a winter heart in sand
Too slow for longest day.

Where Summer Lies

In the heart of memories,
Footsteps grow and stop
Like shadows upon the day,
Shaded into sidewalks
Where all their purpose lay.

All the time in the world
Is pushed into this lucky vein,
But a pulse, the colliding din;
In a spectrum bursting-
Knitting out and back in.

Here, summer's always summer,
The ground etched with tunneling desire
Where dreams wheel around,
Hanging on pet threads
As they pull in heat unsound.

Magnolia Tree

A shifting mosaic
of perfumed shadow,
Sweet and replenished
Light searching
For a root and stem-
An unfinished story.

Too easily it stumbles,
Anchors a finished portrait
For the late pressed spring;
Glimmering shards
In the form of silence:
Yet an unnamed summer.