My Poetry

MORNING

The sun broke
through the clouds,
melting morning mist
beneath its brazen radiance.

Rainbow ribbons of light
danced across the snow fields,
as the old man set out on
his daily trek to the barn.

The fragrant hay
reminds him of summer.
Expectant nickers
remind him of time.

Spring quietly struggles
to emerge from the frozen crust,
as the crocus bravely faces
the final traces of winter.

REVERIE

My grandmother’s porch
wraps around the house
like a
lover’s arms.

Steeped in memories,
the ancient boards creak.
We swing lazily on
a summer’s eve.

The cinnamon scent
of a mother’s love
wafts out the windows,
sweetening the air.

My sister weaves
rainbows through my hair
with ribbon found in
grandmother’s sewing box.

Time stretches out
forever here,
like the dreams
of a child.

Promises made deep
in the night,
while rocking in the halo
of the soft porch light.

INDIAN SUMMER

An evening zephyr
caresses my skin
as I turn my face
towards the warmth
of the setting sun.

The Monet sky
softens the contours
of the mountains,
and there,
deep within the shadows,
lies mystery and
dark memory.

The echo of axefall
preparing cordwood
drifts up the valley corridors,
augmented by the wind.
And evening air
is permeated with the
essence of woodsmoke---
harbinger of winter.

Soon our world
will reflect glistening white,
wrapped in firelight,
crimson and gold.
Summer’s memory
snuffed out by the cold.

SEA DREAMS

Cerulean nights give way
to crimson dawns
as the sandpipers gather
along the shoreline.

Chasing their breakfast
into wet holes in the sand,
chirruping victory
to their neighbors.

Boisterous children
disturb their morning ritual
and a tornado of wings
whip sand clouds in the salt air.

Curly golden heads
bob down to waters edge,
and visions of sand castles
gleam in mind’s eye.

Miniature architects pour
their dreams from buckets,
building fantasy fortresses
which run out with the tide.

Frail structures reflecting
frail dreams simmering under
summer sky. Fleeting…
disappearing with afternoon naps.

WINTERSCAPE

The sky is leaden gray
with its heavy burden of snow.
We wait expectantly for the first flakes to fall--

Noses pressed to the glass,
we gasp as the storm descends
with astonishing velocity.

A wild rhapsody of blinding white
shrouds the landscape
in a matter of minutes.

Trees become snow-sculpture.
The windows glazed.
A surreal light bathes the day.

My window becomes a time machine,
beckons me to play.
Suddenly, I am eight years old.

I look at the dishes, and look away--
Grab my coat, boots, and sled,
and race out into yesterday!

FIRST LIGHT

A flash of sunlight
streaks across the mountain
like a comet,

reflecting off the melting snow,
its brilliance slashing
its way down the face,

an artist’s brushstroke
accenting the landscape
with a splash of gold,

highlighted by lupine’s
rosy glow,
a hillside alive with color.