Only A Few Months

Over the southwest
Field, where new grass
Strives with old and
Yellow light lines
Earth, the blue
Hour lowers.
Air is still cold, but
Soon, birth below
Will lift flowers
And trees must sprout
Their lace of leaves
Across the summer moon.
 

An Honored Guest

Across the east field,
Voices carry from the
Gurdwara and the
Rising sun arrives
At our side gate.

Graphs

Dark clouds close rank
Over a moment and
Upon it empty
All their voltage.
A rage of light
Blinds the mind.
It lingers and
When at last rain
Reclaims control,
The brain is uneasy.
Of itself! yes the soul
Demands proof.
I am always a little
Worried about my roof.

L'heure bleue

She painted an old log
Blue before the last 
Leaf fell, then painted
The hour blue as well.

She paints things blue,
A dear part of her --
Dear to me too
Because I love her.

Janus Before Seven

{back yard, 11-28-14}

Time to sit on a log
And be spellbound
In pearl early light
Turning in low fog.
White tendrils curl
Up from earth,
Ghosts churning
White over winter
Fields.
Not a sound.
How to consume
This crop, this yield?
Sit on a log, be
Spellbound.

Form Fills

Form fills a
Pull of potential
And rain falls.
Rain falls on what
Will be because
Rain fell.

Opera Logic

In opera, wars end
In strolls among flowers,
Coruscating country folk--
Strife flees a jolly
Polka, jokes upon passion, power.
In opera, wars end; hagiarchy
Bends to lovers'
Tears, children praying.
In opera-- fears, betrayal,
Insurrection-- whispers
Snag upon gardens
Over reunion, pardon.
Voices blend --in opera
Wars end.