A blooming unlike any other

Frost dances its samba,

a three-way with the sky and earth

to fall upon surly trees, devoid of

their vibrant leaves

and lend them a new splendor.

The days grow ever-shorter

so ropes of light

unfold, a grand show of force against the

murky dark.

Lying on the ground, before winter forms its

city of crystal

there is only quiet

awaiting a blooming

unlike any other.

L’appel du vide

L’appel du vide

the call of the void

on the edge of all that is

gazing into a Stygian expanse

in which nothing can be discerned,

or even conceived for

it is not.

The voice calls, oft weak and distant

the destructive half we confine

for fear of its great and terrible

potential.

Even that soul of boundless cheer

faces the edge and thinks

what if?

The one most worth making

The long walk to freedom began

before freedom had a name

and those that thirst for righteousness have

been walking since the time of our most

unfamiliar ancestors.

Each person begins to walk

when the dawn breaks on an

otherwise placid day –

The yearning beckons

to rise above their fate.

Contorted, the path bears

no signs, and often circles back

to the beginning.

The walkers wane, legs grow sore and strained.

In such times there is one who walks alone

though now long past weary –

they shine defiant

because of all the journeys in history

this is the one most worth making.

Monuments to the living

I wended my way

along a path-

in what place and time I do not know.

At once the boulevards of Roman glory

then rutted roads, turned to

slop in monsoon rains.

 

The trees burgeoning

a hundred million buds bursting forth

in thunderous applause.

The trees waving, radiant

in the summer solstice sun

The trees, grown cold

as time vitrifies their bark

and all that remains are

monuments to the living.

Rust-hued hair

Cold does not see class.

Nor race, religion –

Where you come from,

where you are now

and where you plan to go in the future.

Cold is egalitarian.

Cold is just.

When the trees wake up in a panic

wondering where their rust-hued hair

has gone –

they stand

side by side

with the children, waddling penguins in their parkas

as the school bus is late again.