Once upon a time,
 just blobs of cold.
We know better now
 our modern sensibilities understanding
each flake:
a little bit of dust
 through hot and cold
  from such great heights,
a natural growth of
 crystalline nature
 unique through its travels
 often imperfect
 its simple structure
  making it glaringly obvious,
melting on human contact.

Call of the Wild

I have been only projecting feelings
 upon the wall of my life.
  It is a strange movie.

I cut myself loose,
 turn myself wild.

These raw feelings,
 man need not witness.

These raw feelings,
 I need them for a real life,
  to tread them.
To tread the path;
 to be in the sunlight.

Blue Herons

The gentle, arched wob-wob,
 she advances step-step
  up the lake.
There is no one here
 except the mini-Lochnesses
 momentarily periscoping up,
 facing the wind
 as it whips up waves.
Oh, another follows
 step for step in step.
I realize this is Spring.
Briefly, I wonder if the tension
 is only my speculating:
 she will yield without a fight
 or they are already friends
  as well as lovers.
It is Spring and each walk
 step-step up this long lake
 and it would take all day;
 no, never finish, they way
  they walk step-step.
He leans into flight,
 glides purposefully down the lake,
 over the hill, and is gone.
Perhaps she didn’t notice;
 perhaps she felt a mere ripple
  of a flap amid the wind;
 perhaps she was only looking
  one step ahead as she continues
She eventually settles in and
he returns, wings splayed,
cruising to the other end
like he has some business to attend to.


That sweet, hot spirit
 wound up in beauty.
Oh, delicate possession,
 to tenderly touch, to stroke,
 to let loose those pent-up sighs.
You demand I separate
 the spiritual from the physical:
 that is my desire.


My fire,
 my little fire,
  I tend, tend, tend to you.
You are not ablazin’ o’er the earth,
 but you are enough
  to crackle with heat,
  to sustain a heart,
  to provide a hearth,
  to roast marshmallows over,
  to lick the ribs of embers
   with quiet flame,
  to entrance me into a reverie
   of my inner mysteries.


Not that everything is good,
 but there is good in everything.
Patience and such faith
 cherry–pick the tartest sweetness.
That’s why Aunt Sally’s pies
 go right to the heart.


From star to star,
from molten blob to smoldering ice,
so many journeys from hot to cold
to get things just right.
Ah, so many fields of foliage
 — waves of miracle —
each unfolding in their time
 to the sun,
wave overlapping waves.

When I wonder at my shoots,
or fuss at how graceful my leaves,
or worry how straight my tendrils,
I gaze around and reflect
 wherein I am a part of;
I am beautiful
 because I am a part of you.