Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and crotchety -

best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light -
good morning, good morning, good morning,

Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.

Missing and regret
veil the morning
the sun's heat
won't break the chill
I seek sanctuary
in the kitchen
dogs at my feet  
vigilantly hoping
I'll drop something

I let them outside
to run and sniff
the frosty folds
for coyote and raccoon
while I take in the view
the Sound so sun-bright
it mists my eyes
blue Cascades beyond
dipped in new snow

I wish to be
that pristine
no footprints
marring my surface
all I ever was
but will never
be again
frozen, buried
gone beneath.

Yet again the rain.
Once again
washing the colour from the day.
Wet and liquid grey
clouds  obliterating the sun,
preventing full daylight from
reaching this streaming place.
Until, an early dreary evening
when, with curtains closed
drum-rolls against the window
as passing flurries of wind
throw volleys at the glass
here where the rain lives.

                                       By Phil Roberts

In the birdhouse I built,
The youngling flies off for the first time
Looking back

With hope for you
       I whispered your name

I wanted nothing more than the world for you,
So much,
I invented new ones.

     We made moons at the cliff
In a word of spoken poetry.

   The rivers split
And we became found.
  
     I caught all the petals in the wind
To recreate a flower.

      I taught you how to fly,
And you became a bird.

    I'm just an old fool
           Who pieces together
                  The broken heart.