Signs Of Spring

Little moth, faint chartreuse
Beat the red-breast to herald change.
The word "visit" was invented for them.
It clung to my night's window.
Made itself seen.
I killed the outer lights
And burning bulb above the stove,
All the false beacons, to juice the moon.
Like a ginko leaf its shape remained
Hardly visible in my dark reflection.
At some point all that I wish for
Becomes my imagination.

Offering

Golden hair, sun gold, all levels of the day
she lowered her mug, smiled, said
you can always stay with me.

Shade pulling long, summer noises, moon
half-painted over the faraway copse,
I gripped rough grass in ten fingers.

We haven't spoken for months.
Memento of my green years, she said
time takes forever to pass, surprise.

Vacant spiderweb hammocks, empty tent
caterpillar clouds, acorn caps full of dust.
A waterless existence, and yet.

It doesn't have to be, she sighed.
Cloy of the crush of plants filling gaps,
filtering star fields, in orderly rows beneath.

Freedom, virgin sister of a natural death,
I am ever homeward drawn to you.
Red feather, young oak, endless lake.

Come back to me, she said.
We hung up our chairs, dishes for morning,
door just ajar so the moths could escape.

The Rambler, Midsummer

When his legs won't let him sleep, he gets up with the first light and packs his bag. They won't know that he is gone until they rise to breakfast, and then they'll talk about him over eggs and sausages. He will already be a mile down the road, walking at a leisurely pace, the grass still cold with dew, the day heating up one songbird at a time. Tiny frogs will dive out of the road ahead of him, or crickets, or early grasshoppers. There is no radio music, just silence broken by his footsteps on the crumbling shoulder, or the occasional chorusing milieu of life in the reeds of a drainage ditch, smelling of rot mixed with fresh wildflowers. Not much in his bag, really. Just a couple reminders of events falling behind him, girls he has loved, and temporary homes.