What ducks will say

shovelful after shovelful
to clear the patio and the pit
and the question mark back
remains after shaking snow
and ice from the iron cage

behavior of an older age
an age once I will be soon
where I can take the time
to ponder over such things
and look back at where I am

for now, paper is torn
to strips and laid over sticks
in the concave metal disc
as remaining snow waits
to melt and boil and fade

little flames flicker with
the striking of a match
and the wind whistles
through the paper tunnels
its love song for fire

the box of junk mail slowly
empties into the growing
heat and smoke, the pair
a paparazzi who will not
stay out of my face and breath

in avoiding their constant
attention, I look up and find
a scrambled flock of ducks
who sound of loose belts
on old cars speeding on by

their flight reminds me
to pause from my endeavor
to find more than feeding
a fire is happening in this
moment I choose to live

that I should stop and
see the ash from the flames
and how the winds scatter
black bits across the snow
in this small scaled backyard

to remember a larger scale
of the world I choose to
live in, the darkening snow
of a thawing sea, something
more to fight a war over

but I am only burning
the mail I didn't want so
I can clean the office for now
and go on with the day
I choose to live in now

Momentary mountains

reflections lay gleaming
and tired on the ground
where weathered stone
cups the light of the lingering day


remnants of the torrent
tearing through the skies
lay in a now silent eve
unmoving silk draped over stone


reservoirs from broken heat
are libations of miller moths
when suddenly the sun sinks
behind the horizon's momentary mountains

Eye sickles

it's the clouds
that keep the fangs around
the crystal clear
slowly dripping to the ground

some so sharp and thin
to pierce the heart,
to tear the skin

above the doors
the clouds keep them around
pointed daggers
slowly dripping to the ground

as angel wings hide the sun
they scoff in their
teetering possible fun

of when one might
decide not to stay around
and surrender the
slowly dripping to the ground

to collide with someone's head
to cause mischief,
surprise, and pain instead

that surely is why
the clouds keep them around
in their agonizing
slowly dripping to the ground

as angels hide the sun so well
I'd tell them all
to go straight to hell

for playing the odds
in keeping them around
and savoring  the
slowly dripping to the ground

Palm reading

Napping

savor of solace found

in the last breath before sleep

the forgotten image in

front of the heavy eyelids

the tiny bit of muffled

sound lingering on earlobes

before slipping into the

inevitable and unknown

 

and not knowing digs

down into depths of souls

with thirsty tyrannical roots

 

be it the first nap of a babe

the initial night terror

with the call of a banshee

tearing through the halls

to snap a parent out of bed

the tyrannical roots have

scattered their spores

throughout man's psyche

 

and not knowing infiltrates

the borders where now

no guard has their post

 

though it has been habit

day in and out, sun up and down

to slip into that other state

left behind our daily clothes

and stark we run through

the glare of both moon and stars

and dance on spider threads

dripping with the cold wake

of the next routine and hours

 

and not knowing simmers

on the back burner of brains

idle yet scheming yet biding

 

following the rabbit through

this habit of falling again and

again into the abysmal sea

where we don't see but feel

don't feel but sense as we

are the incense that burns away

a scent that fades from the air

to drift and wander off somewhere

 

and not knowing turns cold

when the idea of death dies

giving way to sleeping, then waking