A spiral of light, like music to my eyes
I spun out into the golden grass
The stars shining brightly above me
Only seconds ago the vortex that seemed to knock me down
I heard a laugh, but no one was there
Maybe it was the stars
The moon was too kind to laugh
My silver feet began to work again
Daring the stars to tip me twice
The dampened earth beneath my twirling soles
A cushion when the dare was done
I laid there then, but
Only long enough to find Pegasus
Until I heard the muffled steps and swishing grass
As others wandered from the trees
Their candles sad mirrors
Of the vortex in the sky
One by one they challenged the stars
That tucked them all in to a bed of laughter and golden grass
I watched as they disappeared beneath the waving fronds
Until I could feel the hands of the stars readying the finale
Pulling me into a spiral of sweat and lazy zephyrs
They too knew that this was the last dance
But still I whispered up to their shining choir
Daring them to stop time.
Their hands were on their pocket watches
Pulling out the gears
A wish so close to granting you could hear the crickets pause
Yet soon they stirred
The spiral pushed, but laughter pushed it back
No longer harmonizing to their melodic lights
I fell again
This time over a root
My silver feet tarnished to grey
And lost their shine walking back through the woods

A pine forest is the hand,
The soul of the palm fans out in fingers
Like the clayey striations of the sun.
The forest has no sound but the bonebreast
Wandering round of a similar hand,
All but shut now except for the unspoiled nest
Of browning needles and the ancient realmless mound of love.

It’s an absence
Of our entire essence;

Lost I have been among these woods;
My bare feet drum a path of your presence;

Leaves sitting among the branches
Their colorful array of moods.

Murmur a wind from a depth
I’ve once glimpsed behind these trees

For a buried world’s shoulders
Awaken an embrace for my soul;

It’s always been here, hasn’t it?
Always sneeking behind,
Waiting for the day,
I dare.. to turn around.

For in the end, there’s rebirth.

let’s run for the woods—
write each other
love letters on the fallen bark,

take a dip in the lake,
walls of pine trees around us,
fish nipping at our toes.

we’ll nap in a field of moss—
ferns tickling our legs and
kissing under the canopy...

and someday we’ll go home
to the warm cave with a fire
and watch the sparks float like fireflies,

someday.

For a year or possibly more,
Decompression begins:
Purging electricity, electronics.
Fall away, Internet, Oh!
No more cellular,
**** the television set,
Except, perhaps, a radio,
Lest I totally forget....

Hello, paper,
Hello, books,
Come off the shelves;
Lose those ***** looks,
Warm again before my eyes,
Feel the press of my writing stick.

Thoreau, the fakir,
Left the social order
Just a year,
Though just how far
He really went
Remains foggily unclear,
And the fact that he returned
Suggests that Nature
Left him feeling burned.

So, like a diver,
Rising from the deep,
I'd take a while to meditate,
To let the busyness-es go
And put electric dreams to sleep.

Sometimes I want the snow
To fall over me,
Cover me
Somewhere in the woods.
I’d just lie on some fallen twigs;
Listen to them crackle
As I pushed my back into the earth.
Then I’d look up
And watch the white drop,
Let the snow fill up over my body.

I’d feel it sink into me,
Pour into an empty mold.
Cover me
And make me part of the smoothness
Of the white earth.
Then I’d wait,
For the rabbit or deer to leave its tracks
Over my white.

And I wouldn’t care.
Not care that the snow had been
Wrinkled~
Because I’d wrinkle it too
When I got up and left my tracks
On another’s white—
Maybe someone like me,
Who had watched the snow fall.
And maybe they’d stay longer.
But I’d have to go,
Because it’s only
Sometimes I want the snow
To fall over me.

You'll find sparrows, my mother said
Not in the thick,
nor the deep dark
canopies of the woods

You will find them, in droves,
at the ends of tree lines,
busy, busy—always busy
whether in song or with a twig

You will find them in coves
perched upon the green vines,
busy, busy—always busy
calling out upon a sprig

They are small when alone
like me,
in the long, silent hours of my nights
But in the morning they are a chorus
reminding you of all the work yet begun

So, go, find yourself a tree
You'll find sparrows when you're done

I whispered a secret
to the senescent trees
while flowers breathe through
and as toadstools eavesdropped.
Within the wintry treeshades
I peeked through
the misty oceans above
upon where stealthy Mr.Thunder
has kept on skipping and hopping
and leaping from one silver cloud
over another, where for
every leap was a growling cloud
and for each brave growl
was a silver rainfall,
but poor Mr.Thunder
still couldn't give a good chase
to his fleeing rainbow chariot,
till it had sunken deep
skyrimming in the underclouds
to the mauvy meadows where
it had always frolicked through,
and me, in the underwoods
where we had always built
wreaths of purple memories
before soaking ourselves long
in the silvery mud,
bethinking in sunken moments
to just become ghosts
with only memories
because even rainbows leave.
Thursday with blue spirits
waiting for when would
this dreamy mind alight
from looking for
where my heart has crestfallen
deep at, how I had lost it.
So I bite into the mist
of the peeking dusk.

My bluest spirit has taken it,
a secret the sleepy woods know.