I Am

I Am

I am the cutting scent of cold water after

snowfall, falling with a silence so chill it

cracks mountain stones

I am the desolate cry of the unknown marsh

 bird, weeping my sorrow in the wild

wetlands marooned

I am the gnarled, twisty hands of bracken

that rise clutching at the edges of your

patchwork fields of wheat & corn & barley & rye

I am the little weed who cracks the

foundation of your very civilization and tells

of your coming destruction

For I will reclaim.

- Do you hear it? Do you hear the dust of all

your endeavor swirling in my wake?

But yes.

I am also the palette of the universe

contained in a single drop of dew with the

sunlight shining through it

I am the tumbling breeze that whistles

sweetly through the grasses & the leaves

I am the taste of frost-crisped apples,

splitting from streaked red skin to ivory

center with the teardrop seeds of future

forests

I am the summer-collected dandelion fluff

sticking to the warmth of your child's tiny

fist

 

The Whole is Greater than the Sum of its Parts

The Whole is Greater than the Sum of its Parts

Two stands of ornamental grass

Dried and rattling

Thin, hollow, like tiny bird bones,

Sit at the north- and southwest corners

Gray decaying lavender, like a beached whale,

Quietly dies in the southwest corner

Its once blue-green leaves balding

To show the gnarled, leafless interior

Opposite sits an octopus rosemary,

Splayed and raunchy, the evergreen fronds,

The old growth, ready to spiral out green tissue

As soon as the shearer’s back is turned

Purple-blue blossoms browning,

Seeds dropping rosemary’s babies

Spider-made sails once stretched between the branches

Now even rags and tatters gone

Quince buds untwist into leaves and flowers

Variegated pink and white

Tapered, aristocratic thorns stand sentry

But snap at barest pressure

 

Christmas-day planted garlic

Reaches with narrow green fingers

Through near frozen soil

In that sunny spot beneath the bird feeder

In the center, beside the tiny three by three

Textured cement paver courtyard

The branches of the weeping willow

Make shepherd crooks for the birds to loiter

Mint, damned mint

Crowds along the west border

Through the grasses, under the quince

And tickles the corpse of lavender

I will have mint until the day I die

And when I’m buried, I will have

“She should have put down a root barrier”

Engraved on my headstone

The Journey

Hello imaginaries; this is just a rough draft of a poem I've been thinking about for a while now. I'm not happy with the whole second half, and even in the first half there could be improvements. But with my record of procrastination, this might be all that ever gets done. I was thinking it would be called "The Journey"

Water goes flowing, flowing, flowing

In the riverbeds, along the secret ways

Ever coming, ever going, going, going

Down the mountains, through the valleys next

Never caring, never knowing, knowing, knowing

All the fallen leaves drift away, pulled

The current always towing, towing, towing

For a moment stilled but now the sun looks down

In dry summer slowing, slowing, slowing

But the land has touched and having touched does not forget

And all the green things growing, growing, growing

Reaching up, reaching out to stretch and breath

And the winds keep blowing, blowing, blowing

Across the trees, across the fields, to gather up what’s there

And brushes the weary gardener hoeing, hoeing, hoeing

The gentle stalks are bending, bowing to the breeze

All the seeds now lost will soon be sowing, sowing, sowing

A long way from where flowers in a field once nodded to the wind

Over the land to the sea, with the waters glowing, glowing, glowing

Such a journey on the fickle wind, now a gust, and now a storm

With the high spray throwing, throwing, throwing

Glistening, gleaming, ice white droplets in the sky, in the eyes

In the faces of the tired oarsmen rowing, rowing, rowing

Fear goes on, as does the sun and the night is very long

And the dreadful music of the waves is lowing, lowing, lowing

The drowned siren calls, and sings, and sighs through the dark

But dawn and storm break and the love of life is crowing, crowing, crowing

But some say the piper must be paid, and so, too, the siren of the sea

So, standing on the shore, remember what is owing, owing, owing

The Last Mile

Fallen are the leaves all brown, Under Winter's frown now lies the city and the town. But Summer and Fall must first drown for Spring then to wear its crown. Spring soon will bear a brilliant smile; Sun will warm flagstone, floor and tile, So keep spirits in good style. Watch snow fall in drift and pile, And know there is but one last mile.