Ends of circles are
lost in the beginnings of
things just now starting.

Wind in the treetops
speaks quietly to me with
tears for things long gone.

Ink black sky alive
with snakes of yellow lightening
and torrents of rain.

The longer I live,
the more my mother's words are
right, "Never should have...."

Poor old thing, scratching
at fleas that aren't there, pissing
on things not marked yet.

The fog seems somehow
dry - a soft blanket on the
scattering of leaves.

The yard has grown thick,
forested with tall weeds of
late summer's monsoon.

Warm rains are bringing
the bright winds of fall as wet
leaves sway forcefully.

The dense green holds on
to all the moisture there has been,
and looks up for more.

Life would be simplier
if I were a blade of grass
waiting on winter.

Black angles of birds
float and drift between raindrops
Heading south, I guess.

The pale, white sky is
somehow fractured and shining
with the threat of storms.

Still and starless nights
are great for seeing pop flies
shooting off a bat.

Always amazing
that darkness comes so early
as summer moves on.

The spongy, wet ground
gooshes beneath my sandles as
wet grass paints my feet.

Like dots of gray in
jet black hair, bits of turning
leaves sprinkle the green.

The air has thickened,
and summer gasps out hot breathe
sticky with moisture.

They sit in darkness,
sinister little bastards,
waiting for leavings.

Yellow harvest moon
peeking shyly through curtains
of whispy, gray clouds.

A whiff of desiel,
mixed with smells of manure and
sugar - farm kid bliss.

A brilliant, wet green
so bright it hurts my eyes was
left behind by storms.

Fall has come early
riding on the rain's coattails,
washing summer out.

September arrived
bringing a morning chill and
stray leaves on the grass.

Feeling a little
sinusy this morning
in a fall-like way.

Michelangelo
clouds float in the evening sky;
where is God's finger?

Things softly rustle
like sheets haunted by ghosts
in the twilight breeze.

Awake in the dark
I can't go back to sleep, but
don't want to get up.

The rain has softened
everthing my eyes see to
a pulpy green haze.

The sun is breaking
through the sweet, dark comfort of
the overcast sky.

Suddenly the air
thickened, sucking all my breath
away with it's heat.

Watching as the specks
of evening light splash my fence
with waving shadows.

As morning broke
I saw five deer leaping though
a field in a blink.

The morning wind is
whispering in my ears things
I'd long forgotten.

Violent thunderstorms
have brought unseasonable
cool to thirsty green.

Corn stalks soar over
my fence; where in the hell are
Dorothy and Toto?

The hollow in my
stomach tells me summer's over-
the fun part at least.

Something in me loves
an indomnatable spirit-
I don't know quite why.

Rooms of crepe mertle
soar over my wooden fence-
a house of flowers.

Trees sag with heavy
loads of over-ripe greeness
as summer bares down.

The sound of whirring
motors fills the air as lawns
submit to haircuts.

The pink of morning
peeps in my window later
now as summer ebbs.

Cicada rackett
chimes in my ears near bedtime
making me restless.

I know summer's not
over yet, but my heart aches
to think of it gone.

Something beautiful
about the violence of
late summer's wild storms.

What are those small, white
flowers blooming on the stump?
They flutter like sails.

A million burning
stars spelling out the past with
with dots of blazing white.

The moon was in my
window last night; following
me around, smiling.

A tiny moment
of calm and peace before the
wheel moves forward.

Bright new weeds have sprung
their heads among the flowers-
rains have made them brave.

The damp morning grass
has begun to steam with the
promise of noon heat.

Lazy summer green
has spread in all directions,
pillowing the ground.

The summer is back
with a vengence; blazing heat
streams from the sun's mouth.

The moon is too bright!
I'll have another sleepless night
in its laughing gaze.

The dimpled shadows
of each tree's leaves makes a house
of light and darkness.

A mist lightens green
summer trees, haunting the park,
silently as ghosts.

A soundless stillness
lurks over the morning fog
heavier than air.

A pale half moon floats
in a bruised blue sky mottled
with clouds that hint rain.

Evening rains have left
a brilliant, jungle green in
place of yellow veldt.

Vines with white flowers
crawl through my fence old boards with
gentle persistance.

Fireflies conjure
the memories of summers
that make my heart cry.

"Let's go", said Holden,
"Why not", replied Warren Oates-
The Wild Bunch kicks ass!!!

Soft, hazy twilight
comes earlier now - warning
summer, live it up.

Cicada humming
fills the air with sweaty song
as evening desends.

A single yellow
lily blooms among the dead stems,
laughing at the sun.

Softly sighing trees
alive with the kiss of rain
and full-blown summer.

The liles are dead;
dried amber stalks in the sun
hold wrinkled orange.

buzzing late summer
with its twilight white noise hum
alive in hot sound.

The grass is burned crisp
in most places, thirsty for
even my dog's pee.

Air too thin to breathe
but clear enough to glimpse all
of the endless fall.

Chunks of glacier sit
looming on the bare slopes of rock
laughing at the sun.

Panting on the couch,
my dog's tounge droops with the heat
of an evening walk.

A house with a stream
running under the windows -
that would be heaven.

Awakened to squriels
racing on the lawn; they have
returned to my trees.

Just because they say
they'll call, doesn't mean they will-
surely you know that.

What are the purple
flowers waving on thin stalks
along the highway?

Laying on my back
in soft grass and black night, I
talk to the full moon.

Muggy morning winds
blow bluejays out of waxy
green trees, looking pissed.

Eight twenty one and
orange sunset fills waxy
green leaves with twilight.

Light falls on dog hair
showing a fine mist over
my entire life.

Clouds have taken
the sting out of the sunshine
helping ease my sight.

A blur of heatwaves
distorts the field and highway
that shoots past my car.

The yellow lilies
burst forth with such brightness
to burn like hot stars.

Alone in the haze
of the overcast summer
afternoon, I sleep.

Like a giant sponge,
the woods surround my footsteps
soaking up sound.

Fleas, you little pricks,
you've invaded my couch and
bitte me half raw.

I like things to be
how I remember them and
not the way they are.

The large woman outside
is wildly filling bird baths
in the mid-day sun.

From where I'm sitting,
it sure doesn't look like rain,
Mr. Weatherman.

This guy once told me
water's the only symbol....
what the hell's that mean?

Everything has stopped-
afternoon heat bears down like
silent glacial pause.

Hey, angry blue sky,
how about a cloud or two
to soak up this heat?

Sad, old warehouse sits
like the bones of long dead beasts
petrefied in rust.

Why do trees rustle
far up in their leafy tops?
Too hot for rainfall.

My hot skin is soothed
by the air-conditoned bliss-
ah, technology!

Quiet! What is that noise?
The back gate rasps, and a strange
shadow looms outside.

Alone in the dark,
with the music of traffic
singing in my ears.

Solomn blades of grass
whisper in the wind, calling
with works I can't say.

The highway blurs with
waves of orange heat that
could melt tar or flesh.

A hot cup of tea
somehow cools me off just like
fighting fire with fire.

Summer has come now,
with its thick heat that slows down
even the fastest.

Balmy summer breeze
brings the chance of rainfall and
the promise of sweat.

Flash of red feathers
as the cardinal darts between
the falling raindrops.

A slow, thick movement
rolls throw the heat of coming
summertime nightfall.

Cloudy evening falls
on my full belly and
my sad, addled thoughts.

The tall thicket swarms
with the unseen rustle of
all manner of life.

My oak trees all have
little red buds of new leaves
burning on the green.

Fireflies flicker
in and out of iris stems
floating on thick winds.

Closed lilies shudder
as their unfurled orange blooms
brace themselves for rains.

My neighbors flowers
are pushing through my fence boards
with bright persistance.

Huge, yellow full moon
wades motionless in starless
skies of inky blue.

A drone of mowers
throwing dust mechanically
into the twilight.

Long shadows ripple
their lacy patterns across
the sidewalks like waves.

Cold winds are blowing
the vast ocean of green as
the street lights click on.

Sweet honeysuckle
weighing down the air with its
dizzying thickness.

Rabbit sits sunning
by the sea of tall grasses
ready to swim fast.

The first day lilies
have popped open, just the two
burning hot orange.

The spider has come back
to the web she spun last year,
heavy and swollen.

Long shadows shade my
yard with a dark, deep green that
keeps the heat at bay.

A pale cold has come
settling over late May
with solomn silence.

A cool misty rain
falls, kissing all the trees and
grass with its soft tears.

Heavy air and thick
leaves hang on trees like wearing
far too many clothes.

The sky can't decide
whether to be bright or dark-
it's ruining my nap.

Three squirrels risking life
playing miles up in my tree-
some real bad asses.

High clear skies above
washed clean of debris by rain-
who knew blue could burn?

Tangled in the weeds,
resilient black-eyed-susans
follow the highway.

Clouds out my window
like something painted with a
heavy-handed brush.

There are days when the
weather is simply perfect-
today would be one!

The rustling of leaves
in the cool morning breezes
brings back long lost thoughts.

I waited all night
for you to call on the phone
fat girls die alone.

Fields thick with spring grass-
what do cows think about,
aimlessly munching?

The spongey, wet ground
keeps my feet moving slowly,
anchored by damp grass.

Soggy peonies
droop saddly among the weeds
shedding pale petals.

Dead asleep I am
awakened by the gently
tapping rain's fingers.

A clammy wind blows
remains of the morning's wind
weighting down the air.

Suddenly nighttime
has claimed the afternoon sky
with roars of thunder.

Soaking up the cool
that glistens in the morning
with dewy whispers.

Soft white peonies
feather in clouds from the vase
scenting the still air.

Lettuce and onions
fresh from the garden could be
the best part of spring.

The brief flowering
of sunshine is over; dark
gray skies are looming.

Soft, light leaves of spring
exchange their feathery green
for waxy darkness.

The sun has broken
through the oppressive halo
of gray clouds and rain.

The thick, warm fog has
settled over the new green
breathing hushed secrets.

In the soft half light
alone in morning rain I
listen to my breath.

A rainy cold has
crept back in; seeping through trees
and chilling my bones.

The gray skies brighten
green so deep it hurts your eyes
and keeps you earthbound.

There have come soft rains
with a gentle pattering
of light, soft fingers.

Storms are rolling in;
rattling the new leaves with
concussive rain drops.

The rain has opened
light green new leaves that shutter
in gusts of spring wind.

The slow, steady rain
makes a busy afternoon
for hungry robins.

The morning gray wraps
it's soft fingers around all
the new, bright edges.

The air is heavy
with scents of promised rain and
a thick, green perfume.

The red-tipped oak leaves
begin to form canopes
that block out the sky.

A high, hot blue sky
promises an April warmth
unseasonable.

A sliver of moon
slashed through the black of morning-
woke up too early!

I have awakened
to a new, fleshy green world
with its thick perfume.

Unbelievably
clear, blue sky, without a trace
of clouds anywhere.

The damp, green world is
riotously erupting
with a thick lushness.

The trees are filled with
small yellow birds that explode
in flight like flowers.

Funny that doing
nothing can be so very,
very exhausting.

Stormy skies roll in
as a solitary hawk
dots the April gray.

A rainstorm's puddle
offers children an excuse
to practice splashing.

The caw of nameless
birds fills the air of my yard
with sounds of return.

Temoultous winds
and the rainstorms of April
give birth to new green.

A stormy Easter
wind and rain shake the treetops
and soak the bright green.

Flying though the fog
a gauzy curtain over
spring's painful brillance.

A barren, gray sky
peeps gloomily in windows
casting solmn light.

Alone in the wind
that howls around me like a
lost stranger's ghost.

Slowing down fast spring
with its frantic, rushing winds
seems impossible.

The hard light of dusk
sits heavily upon eyes
waiting for soft night.

Everything trembles;
flowers, grass, and stems shutter,
and bend with cold wind.

My poor irises!
I fear they'll be beheaded
by the frost tonight.

Coats of leaves begin,
to cover the broken bones
of ice ravaged trees.

Two robins fly up
flapping wings and pecking in
either love or war.

Cold rains are falling
Washing green that hurts my eyes
-breaks my heart with hope.

Storm clouds and flowers-
April is the cruelest month;
fast and beautiful.

The smell of mown grass
is almost obscured by wind-
very faint perfume.

Winds rattle windows,
storm clouds are brewing; it seems
March leaves like a lion.

New, fuzzy leaf shoots
cover all the trees leaving
me lonely and blue.

I awoke to snow-
dusting the late March colors
and shocking the birds.

A torrent of rain
and plumes of fog grazing earth
driving through storm clouds.

Perfectly still sky-
like looking at the landscape
encased in glass air.

Soft shades of twilight
soften all the rough edges
with or without wine.

Just like that, dark skies-
Spring's a moody time of year
Wind and storm clouds race.

The oaks get leaves last-
thank goodness there is still sky
to see without leaves.

Green fuzz sprouts on trees
like a soft, fine hair making
old men become young.

Echos of thunder
bring the promise of lightnening
and pyrotechnics.

The mist on the lake
rises with a sliver light,
mirrored in stillness.

Rain in the darkness
pattering on the rooftop
waking me from dreams.

A lone nest swaying
at the top of naked trees
seems a fragile home.

Something wonderful
about the yellow flowers
burning in the vase.

An early spring fire-
green and bare outside with winds
that rattle old bones.

A cold, fresh wind blows
bringing with it a green smell,
waking the sleeping.

The cold rain has drenched
my yard's lone, yellow herald-
sad foresythia.

Streetlights have come on-
the soft pink glow of twilight
flirts with coming night.

A freezing cold rain-
miserable and soaked through,
I'm sad there was no snow.

The skies promise ice -
I must admit, cocoons of
snow sound heavenly.

The rain has not come;
the sky sags with heaviness,
but the clouds stay closed.

tumultuous spring
enters with early violence-
change requries action.

This springing forward
will mess up my sleep for weeks;
ruins my whole, damn day.

Every year from death,
rising like the phonex,
forsythias flame.

Warm breezes blowing
tossing around the night's stars
while they dream of spring.

Orange sunset burns
and soon I will be alone
with night, my old friend.

Branches sway wildly-
trying to free themselves, but
they're slaves to the wind.

I will miss winter's
bare, open solitude, and
the nearness of stars.

Cloudy winter night-
fingers dragged across the sky
letting in the cold.

Still, quiet snow dust
adds a certain solomness
to Sunday Morning.

Spattering of snow
on dead grass and the lawn chairs-
winter's soft goodbye.

Winter has returned
with racing clouds and dark skies,
like a goth boyfriend.

A dark morning sky
with the promise of lightning
on blue-black canvass.

The sun on my face,
the breeze blowing through my hair-
good to be alive.

Awake in the dark
listening to the raindrops
falling on dead grass.

Amputated trees
fractured bodies swaying
like armless giants.

Black hawk cuts the sky
contrasting with blueness of
late winter silence.

Highway gleams ahead
winter's landscape flashes by
sun is at my back.

Three cats sun themselves
waiting for the promise of
warmth out of season.

The sky is hard blue;
sunshine licked the clouds away
leaving only cold.

Naked branches sing
as wind whistles through them with
solomn emptiness.

The violent blue sky
mingles with the outer gray-
something like a bruise.

Scraping car windows
of morning's sparkling, soft frost
wakes me up nicely.

The still winter world
is broken by rain showers
and beaded motion.

Bradbury's Venus-
a dreamed place with constant rains;
sounds alright to me.

Oh late winter blooms
careful when you show your green-
frost is not done yet.

Alone in warm rain,
I am reminded of things
that catch in my throat.

The rains have come now
bringing concussive showers-
that wrap me in sound.

The rain has stopped now-
and I miss the sound of water
with its small, soft hands.

The frantic bird flight
and dark promise of rain storms
taste of spring's violence.

The ice storm has left
the monuments of branches-
tributes to damage.

It's been gray all day-
a cloak of oppression that
is almost comfort.

Thick clouds moving fast
race me along to something
that could likely wait.

Solitude is like weight-
sometimes like a blanket and
sometimes like anvils.

One forlorn cardinal
hops among the felled branches
gingerly pecking.

If the trees could cry
surly the sounds of weeping
would be deafening.

The afternoon light
filtered through the leafless, bare trees
fills me with longing.

The sun has returned
and quiet desolation
is at least well lit.

The moon is winking
like the eye of a woman
that has been punched black.

The ice has melted
and night falls blanketing the
wreckage of the storm.

The cracking bullets
of melting ice crashing down
seems more than water.

I write by candles
now power, trees crashing down
feels like World War II.

The vague blue-black light
illuminates the glossy
branches as they crash.

A wasteland of ice-
trees lay splinterd in the street;
shattered, gleaming bones.

A varnish of ice
bows brittle branches down in
silent submission.

A hard, blue-gray sky
waits with icy impatience
for something to fall.

Cold wind rattles leaves
so thin and papery brown
like an old man's skin.

That things will change is
is a certainty that is
beyond my control.

A soggy wind blows
with the promise of something
more than just rainshowers.

Each day it seems
I am bewitched by sunrise
and winter's silence.

Thin, crisp curve of moon
where pink dawn kisses blue night
among bare tree arms.

The birds are hungry-
frantically pecking at straw.
I must put out seed.

Sometimes days whirl by
caught in a bright eddy
of rushing moments.

Something beautiful
about 7am Sunday-
alone with the birds.

The hard, blue sky
has faded into soft pink
bringing with it calm.

Bone rattling cold
has stopped all motion, all sound
leaving bleak silence.

The bright sunshine warms
my little dog who races
his devious tail.

Ah, hibernation
sounds good to me this morning
lying warm in bed.

Sunday and make-ups

I am enjoying
the still life ouside my house-
How long till it moves?

The beautiful bones
of the lovely naked trees
are winter'g best gift.

my thoughts are clearer
among the leafless landscape
free from green clutter

my lungs fill with the
beaufiful, stinging berathes of
a chilled air so light!

the trance-like forest
is lost in a barren thrall
half asleep in ice.

a fat squirrel races
up a leafless branch rushing
to out run cold rain.

The air smells like ice
with a cold that cuts my bones
and burns breath like fire.

Winter is the time
to bask in the solitude
of bare, clean quiet.

The air feels thinner
in the wintertime somehow-
like shards of spun glass

Birds fly overhead
soaring to keep from freezing
to the lonesome ground.

Gray has decended
from the low, comforting folds
of winter's blanket.

The screams of children
signal they are having fun,
but still sound scary.

Winter has returned-
the leaves rattle with the cold
and I want a fire.

A patch of relief-
unseasonable warmth,
brings the lie of spring.

The female cardnal
searches my dead yard for food;
the male suns himself.

Breathing stinging air
into my tired body;
in no mood to write.