Moonless shadows fall

on straight stone paths in stillness

beyond briared woods.

Rory hit the wall with a silence,
like the sound a skull drum shakes.
Rory felt like a clay pot
crumbled before it bakes,
in oven-hot hands that
burn til they ache.
Rory lost grip, felt as brittle sticks
snapping beneath tines of a rake,
without an ounce, an inch,
a peck, a pinch it might take
to understand how
an olive-pit breaks.

serendipity in a paradox #12

Change

Caught in

autumnal

incessant

hazey heat

reflections,

the first storm

urges

before it

a windforce-cold

sand-bit feel.

Dearest low 

barometric

dive

lifts me

from my seat.

See, there

blown

upon gusts

three turkey vultures

play with it's force,

bringing my eyes

winging

out of my head

so my heart

can watch the leaves

change.