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.

making rope

We held each end, spread

five times the need apart, handles 

smooth and firm, twine doubly doubled

rat-tails, porcine bristled, porcupine fine.

Twisting, taught, tonal, tight,

you held firm, leaned against its pull,

I spun the handle, and wound it round,

tough, alive, coiled and stretched the spring.

Preconceived, at the cusp of curling,

a third hand becomes anchor, midway holding 

half of each snaking together, weaving one wound braid.

Capable of unraveling, we hold onto the knot.

(I have learned to make rope from twine. The process becomes magic in the hands of boys, with a t-shaped dowel and nail tool, spinning the twine tightly until it folds upon itself in a coiled rope. 

I am learning to keep a relationship from unraveling, like a rope maker, we need to tie up loose ends)

divining pool

Pool viewing:

smooth surfaced, obscuring depths,

images reflected, mixing into water,

fluid yielded, encompassing forms,

surface roiled, dispersing views,

for a cool drought,  quenching relief.

Three-quarter moon

The three-quarter moon turned away from me tonight,
her full lips set, jaw edged tight,
war-paint eyes turned to the right,
the three-quarter moon cut shadows with light.

The three-quarter moon
took away the stars,
took away the sea,
took away the clouds,
for a two-toned realm of fog
and isles,
above the horizon line,
hills underfoot,
one step
from the sky,
alabaster lit.

Indian Summer

Apple jelly, wood cutting,

pear pie, windows shutting.

Arms of grapevines growing mounds

arching greens upon the ground.

Buckeyes fruit, late and sallow,

leaves dropping first to fall.

Thick and prickly flesh rises

to night’s sightless icy breezes.

Sun hides, static, pallid

within a seamless, cloudless pall.

The Mother’s hills are

thinned and brown

where soles of summer

have worn her down.

Don’t, yet, give in to the cold.

Don’t, yet, let it take hold.

Put the woolen sweater back.

Rest sandaled feet in the Mother’s talc.

Open the window,

wrap in Her afgan,

draw heated breath

with every the pass of the fan.

Crickets still summon

honeysuckle's song

for Indian Summer

just 
around the corner. 


                         

Serendipity in a Paradox, cont.

Broken Glass

The pan shattered,
from oven to stovetop
who knew the burner was hot?
Rich chocolate creamy brownies
smelling acrid,
suddenly exploded
all over her
all over her feet
all over the kitchen
all into tears.
Shards of glinting needles
and burned cake
picked, wiped,
swept, hunted.

What a relief
for once,
something
tangible
to fix.