Morn

Meet the morn: 
new eyes,
refreshed;
sunburst lending
joy's colors
to the periphery;
vision warmed
by the inexplicable;
fear --
palpable, trembling,
shimmering icicle
on the verge of
melting,
melting
away.

Signature

A name is a name,
or a cloak, or a shawl --
the letter image
by which we call
a being, unique -- 
drawn in sound and lines;
word shape to express
what most defines 
a person, or shade
of identity,
at present or only
for future to see.

Inner Mentor

Writer,
dig deep into the soil
barehanded,
fingers unafraid,
and scrape up
whatever stones
and sinewy weeds
lie beneath
the surface.

She and I (young scholar and author)

I write: 

Motion
after dormancy,
stretch the legs,
feet run free . . . 

She writes: 

Humerus 

Ulna 

Patella (the knee) 

I say: 

"Must concentrate now,
on this poem I've begun . . ." 

She says (re:  Anatomy): 

"I'm having FUN!" 

I ponder some words: 

"Now, let me see . ." 

She exclaims with glee, 

"This is easy!" 

Eating grape leaves, I comment, 

"Ooh, this is spicy!" 

Nose in book, she asks,

"The poetry?"

Dream Days

To expand with the wild
like nature's child
and read the breeze
on dusty knees;
the eternal, lingering on a summer's day . . .
warmer winds not far away.

Sun

Hope . . . hope . . .
in the unrevealed,
the unthought of,
in what we cannot see
or imagine
this moment,
future unknown --
in this all are
equal. 
But if our faces are
uplifted,
how can the sun
go wrong?

Standing on the Wind

Standing on the wind,
I hold on, as before;
losing hat, losing scarf,
but facing forward,
once more. 
Standing on the wind, 
I weep at the chill,
yet my eyes open wide
o'er plunging valley;
steep hill. 
Standing on the wind,
I flinch; skin burns
with the cold heat of flight: 
flesh endures; soul learns.

Drifts

I sense a freedom,
like fresh, new snow,
clean, powdery drifts,
dusting high and low --
white, mystical glow. 
Each snowflake whole,
sweet symmetry;
starshine's crystal
clarity.

Delirium

Fatigue of earthen clay so deep --
battle waged: 
Evil,
hemorrhage of hatred,
claiming its hour
again
and again
and again;
Rachel's tears
pouring down,
swelling oceans --
but not enough
for earth fevered with
sorrow monstrous. 
And the birds,
little ones --
they try to tell us,
their tiny voices pealing into a world
where the little perish
as nothing,
making the earth
shudder.

Dewdrops on the Dust

A luminous thought pushed its way
through the parched, fractured clay,
casting dewdrops on the dust. 
Wan and weary seedlings,
revived by taste of rain,
shot up --
for bloom they must.