Docile being
goes unseeing,
bending in the wind.
Swaying, gently,
unrelenting,
standing free,
again.

Love, be not a stranger to me
when I call your name.
The sound of voices, echo's from
the distant past, can be heard,
in the emptiness that surrounds me.
Why do you shirk me so?
I ask myself this question but
silence is my only answer.

Golden are the days,
I have known you,
silver are the nights,
as I will always love you,
no matter what our plight.

A golden tide of maple leafs
cascade from the trees,
swept by a November wind.
Branches, stripped bare,
twist and wave, pummeled by a breeze.
Falls eternal desecration, of Summer beauty,
readies the land for Winters coming.

May I borrow your name
for just a moment?
I'll give it back,
with only the corners
slightly bent
from too much usage.
I love your name
and the way
it seems to fit
into my vocabulary.

Living gives me pleasure,
just to be alive and
smell the freshness of morning,
as the rising sun
brings forth moisture into dew.

Arm in arm, hands intertwined,
strolling through the woods.
Talking, touching, seeing you,
with windswept hair.
Dragging feet, through piles
of gold, fallen from the trees.
The still, fresh crisp of Autumns
night nips our noses and cheeks.
Frost pockets, stay in the darkest shade
where the Sun never reaches.
Threads of ice from water splashed,
cling to bank and branches,
while rocks and stones, become encrusted,
with coats of crystal glass.
Lay your head down on my arm
and make my chest your pillow.
Close your eyes and listen love,
to words, soft, warm and mellow.

River, clearing as the rain subsides,
all the brown grass, of winter
are now thick with frost.

The Sun shining, warming me
through my heavy coat,
as the crisp air attacks,
fingers and toes.

Casting across the slow moving
waters, watching the lure
splash and disappear,
feeling the irregular bumps of
lead along the bottom,
waiting for that uncertain
touch of the elusive fish.

Reeling in and seeing ice
built up in the ferrules.
The sound of a cock peasant,
the drumming of wings, carrying
him to safety.

The river smells like the
ocean.
Tiring, I return to the car
and so ends the quiet alone,
of this New Year morning.

I feel the cold crispness of winter
inside my nose.
Up above, the low hung clouds
reflect the pinkish, orange light
from a hundred street lamps,
marking the boundary way
of the street.
Cars speed by, swirling wind,
about me.
The warmth of my breath
puffs billowy, rhythmically,
as I exhale.
The pounding of my feet,
and occasional dog barking
at my passing, are the only
sounds I hear.
I try not think of the
distant point I'm running to
for if I look and see, it might distract me
from the concentration, that I need,
to attain by goal,
to finish.

Day passes into night,
sliding ever gently,
into darkness