Monday, January 7, 2008


We path ourselves winging small adaptions
feeling air wind itself cold slipstreaming
cleanse. Whispers crying, crying.

Feathers frailing bitter winds.

Last of the Year

The houses clamped onto the lawns
refuse the dawn, remaining closed
among their paths, neat mail boxes and swept drives,
uncaring of the azure cloud
drifting singing as it turns gold.
The fence is brambled, wired weeds
with leaning splintered posts.
Myth has it that horses once pastured here
under the sky where the brittle brown grass sings.
Their flowing tails would follow, follow
along this streak of ground
along the fence concealing the disapproving houses,
each alike, each alike.
The horses' noses would have found good green
here where the grasses part
and the forest swallows, swallows.