The Dance
Waiting, I sometimes feel you, In a dark place quiet, With wind-sounds and ancient Distant music: We do not dance With our bodies, we form the song Between us and stand watching With lined, ancient eyes: sages, Remembering when we, too, throbbed With the earth’s warm pulse And brought the dance to its Perfection in the heat-shimmer Of summer-silver sunlight On brown water, jagged rocks That pierced our dancing feet As we climbed. Time has turned seasons, And rain forms the beat, Erratic now, for a winter dance; Fierce and quick it will have to be, To warm these bones again; Your arms will have to circle My body that much closer, Your bones I will touch That much more gently Until that fire burns through us Once again, until the dance Finds its way back To the rhythm of the song.
Intaglio Of Rain
It is late afternoon, Bright points of light Are found only in green glass. A silver flute, gold studs in velvet, A dull glow, rich, red, And from the tuba, grey, Changing, criss-crossing, As the branches swish, Thrashing in the wind: Grey water paints the sky, A wash reflecting some sea, An ocean, still, becoming sky In the heat of the sun, Not slowly moving, Shadowing the land. Here, the points of light are gone, Only soft half-light on silhouettes Is left, changing no more, Mutely reflecting the sky: Water pouring, deeper grey, Then only stillness As moisture soaks into The darkened earth.
Untitled
Pine needles fill my dreams, Cushioning my sleep, browning me down, Soft brown, fine lines on the ground, Left random as the wind sweeps Molding the places I live: Home, Southern pine needle piles, Prickly rolls, days, days as a child; Mountain cabin, Bergheim, log home, Ponderosa pine, scent of vanilla in the long sun, Needles under snow in wind valley; College town, home how, needles in woods, Sparse woods, hardly forest, pins Poking through picnic blankets, surprising me Like the filtered, changing sun.
