Being Back

In the fold again
with the awkward how you dos
and shifting glances of reacquaintance
settling one by one
like the down of feathers.

We clear the silence with our reinventions
through the thicket of words and bed
of constancy
remembering now to part again.

Late August

Willows of late summer when you
start to shed your turned colors
I remember already
the light soaked rooms
and windows flung open
where Prajna sprawls on her well-warmed paws.

Last night I heard an owl hoot.
With certainty I pulled out his threnody
from the drone of cicadas
and broken ripple of crickets
while we sat around the bonfire
S'mores held aloft in the cool grove of evergreens
with the light and smoke in our eyes.

Lemon Verbena

I harvested the leaves of our lemon verbena plant to make a tisane.  E expressed some reservation with the idea, when rubbing a leaf of the plant between two fingers he pronounced the scent emitted to be that of Lemon Pledge.

I plucked ten hardy leaves, downy with gentle serrations, placed them in a glass teapot, and waited for the water to boil.

Would it taste like an antiseptic cleanser or would I be transported to a grove of lemon saplings where summer never fades?

I watched a lone leaf pirouette in midair before its final descent while I sipped the liquor of honey and limes.

Time Between

Out of season the maple leaves fall
feathered with a blight that spares
green everlasting over the white picket fence:

Time between
the now of pain that comes thunderclap
amidst birdcalls, breezes
and the moment when it will
drift on three mindful breaths.

West Facing Windows

Ample, silent the light shifts
through the west facing windows
mosaics of shadows
and late summer leaves
porous to my unconscious.

August Shower

I wander in the flickers of light
remembering what you said
it will not rain
in the woods
and fields of asters
a single reed bowed by a cricket
a signal a start a long sigh
of rushing water and sound.

Back Home

The rain has cleared
and the weighed air of cicadas
return with but a wisp
of movement in its timbre

ushering me to my seat by the window
where the daylilies falter in sunlight
and my pen runs sinuous in words.

Rock Island

Leaving behind the slap
of plump biting flies
drone of a lighthouse docent
I enter the forest primeval
of ferns and shadows
split-opened tree trunks
their scalloped lichens.

On this island
of New Icelandia
the runes are etched
in virgin wood repeating
the lore of a lost world.

Now as before
the water slaps shimmery
in the stone pressed cove.

Ephraim in August

Over the remembered fence
the vines of midsummer drape
their leaves pocked with
a gentle blight
hinting at the time of the season.

I am back in the bower
where the light shifts
and we hear our voices
over the endless cups of tea.

We do not see last year's sparrows
kicking up sand
in the shade where
a bug skitters down my arm.