Lowest winter
sun rose
warming inner
window pane

Wind Dervishes

A rushing

like water falling

calls me.

I try to face,
and brace against
an animalistic air.

I follow leaves

like dervish dancers

leading flight

from trees

who let go

overnight

Oars

"There comes a time",
said the sage
to the drenched woman,
"to use your arms as oars."

"When the mother of all
storms surges its
crushing waves,
pounding and plowing
across the bow,
and tears through sails
as through your lungs,
and against your ribs
like spars,
it's time to reach
your arms as oars.

Your oars are
smooth and broad,
oak old and oak hard,
polished by oil,
smoothed by sweat,
and molded by toil.

They will guide the bow,
align the sheer,
override the surf,
undermine the tempests,
and hold
the old boat
afloat."

WEATHERING THE STORM

Wind pushes loose bodies around, and through them
we are space
Rain blankets down, running rivulets through
we are water
Waxing gibbous moon, one eye open in view
we are light





(funny how life changes make unseen storms in a potentially tranquil world)

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.