Morning

Gilded night sky
melts into braided milk
Black hands of oak
and blotches of horses on hills

Sun rising mountain born
and coppering down the long lanes
Crows taunting the early dogs
and a hawk flees from such seething

Spider webs jeweled
to bracken and withered grass
Fox padding the frosted track
with voles jawed in smoking breath

Milkman maddening down
the slick macadam
School bus stops
with red light flashing

When the Sun Falls

When I sleep
I know you are there
with the world,
brothers and sisters
in my dreams of unity

And when the day comes
and I do not find them
safe and full of hope,
are you still there
behind the smoke and ash?

Be there tomorrow,
come back with your promise

A Curve in a Stream

Ahead of
us we let go
of the cold hand
that cradles the world,
structures can no longer hold
because we know that truth does
not harm, does not exploit out of self-interest
does not turn its back on the free will of a people, ever

The Skeptic

On braver days
my sad eyes do rise
to trace the Pacific main
where blue sky
touches the flat sea
like a bubble on a stream,
the arc of the world
made real before for me

Who has seen
the round Earth
from the vantage point of stones?
Those rare men who know
what I do not,
from space they gaze
upon my shore

Then in a moment
the lapping brine
runs cold against my shins
and the leap and howl
of careless play
launches me to stars
I cannot see

Healing

The storm creeping up your back
will pass like petals
before your brother's eyes

Forget the darkness at your feet,
it is only the shadow of a child
who wishes to please

Get on your knees
and kiss the fair cheeks,
see the light on the road behind you

The stones where you stumbled
are scattered now with
your memories

Raven

Why do you follow me,
your song like metal in your throat
and your small black eye that
searches for what is dead
below the crumbling cliffs?

And there in the pastures of my own making
you laugh at my enterprise
Do you know how I follow you,
wanting nothing but your secrets
to shower me with a sensible rain?

You are the keeper of the poet's vision
that ends with stones and bones

In your forgotten language
all is dust

Book Store

I adore you all,
the confident and free,
books like children
embossed with lyrical glory
inviting the touch of hands
and eyes upon the voice of creation
Toil and solitude bear sweet fruit,

exquisite gifts of divine reply
But what of me,
the gestation of my plums,
piquant flesh or withered husk,
my name engraved in gold on spines
or stacks of scribble
coffee stained?