Sunday, December 31, 2017

In Tulê Fog

In the south field
Tulê fog obscures
Scores of infinite
Futures to yield
Doubt --out there
Beyond the creek
Where it bends west
And I seek some
Best sense of the 
Year ahead-- even
An hour is immense.
I feel future floating
In  mist -- it consists
Of  features unformed,
Until the sun nears
And land is warmed,
Time moves and
Tomorrow appears.

Friday, December 8, 2017

Ivy About To Bloom

We are not entirely real,
Or with each conscious
Contact the world would 
Wound us, bruise us.
What emerging monster
Or blossom is it?
Will the lane ahead remain
Unlit or reality yield
A way, a path revealed
In ivy buds
And never lose us?
Maybe yes, maybe no, but
I'd like to think so.