The Weight of the Day

Shadows clamber
through the windows,
cohorts of the rising sun.

They bring with them
troubles of new day.
Odd that the advent of sunlight

bears such darkness.
Nighttime morphs into dawn
and twenty-four fresh hours

settle down upon me
as the huge black weight
I’m forced to carry

rides me hard--
spurs buried against my side
flat-out in a dead man’s run.

It's Me, I'm Here

So here I am begging you to see me.
Like a child on a swing pumping
my legs faster and faster,

going higher and higher until
the whole thing begins to topple
back and forth out of the ground.

Then you notice me for every
reason but one that matters.
Why can’t you see the beauty

in the lines of my body
as I glide back and forth?
The subtle way my hair glistens

under the sun? The look of joy
and contentment on my face
while I perform for you?

Had you not heard the thumping
of the swing set against the hard ground,
you wouldn’t have seen me yet again.

Bohemian Girl

She lives high in the mountains
where the elms skirt the roads
in blankets of champagne and russet
and the moon, when it blooms
sits on the highest hilltop.

The sun weaves its way through the pines
and tattoos the forest floor--
glistens on Little Bear Pond
like light dancing off diamonds.
Minnows circle just under the surface.

Her cottage is quaint, sturdy. Made
of logs with hand hewn shutters.
A solid oak door, speakeasy grille
guards the front. Her garden
is fragrant with tea olive and lavender,

lush in herbs like sage and basil.
Lanterns hang off wrought iron hooks.
She lights them at dusk to honor the night,
draws moths to the flames
so they can dance in the glow.
　
　
　
　

Winter Weight

And the cold settles in like death.
Everything is still and gray
until the breeze gusts in spurts--
almost an afterthought. Leaves
and snow swirl about.

Icicles hang, ghostly appendages
bending limbs to their breaking
points. Trees are haggard
from dead weight- wobbling
in the wind.

Winter has buried us. It’s dirty
and bulky, an old white sweater two
sizes too big that hangs on the city.
Bunching up in the alleyways,
the gutters, on the streets.

Overcast skies suffocate. The sun
trolls for a place to flicker through,
its hazy glow smolders behind
the clouds stratum. No warmth
permeates their depth.
　
　
　
　
　
　

E Equals

I’m twelve pounds of energy
in a five pound box.

Don’t pierce my shell
or sparks will fly.

And you won’t be able
to contain me.

I’m the stuff that myths
are made of.

The one you wish
you’d never opened.

A Different Perspective

Grateful for steam that rises,
I inhale dark roasted brew
and cream like a drug.

I bury my feet in impossibly thick socks
and swim in soft flannel, fabric that’s replaced
the silk and satin of youth.

Sun glances through the pines, plays hopscotch
in the backyard. I watch it jump, a child seeing
fireworks for the first time.

I hear the trills of birds echoing through the trees.
Even though their chirrups are a foreign language,
I’m enchanted.

The dog sleeps peacefully at my feet, chest barely
rising and falling. I’m awed that she surrenders
with one rub on her belly.

I look through different eyes in the autumn
of my life. Savoring the sweet, sunbeams pierce
my window like flaming arrows.

A Sign of Things to Come

I long to feel a nip in the air.
The one that chases away the summer heat,
makes trees blush and turn away.

The chill that coaxes me into my favorite shawl,
makes me want to curl up in front of the wood stove,
my feet tucked into impossibly thick socks.

That harbinger of autumn: season of pumpkins,
apple cider, and the promise of Thanksgiving--
leaves sent somersaulting to the earth.