In search of story


Disconnections: June 8.18

Platinum gild

on buttermilk sky

no wonder Icarus

flew too high.





Connections: March 29.18

I wish I could send you, dear reader, a bit of this morning. We are due for yet another day of rain (have mercy!), but right now the rain is merely a hint, heavy in the air. It is barely day, but there is enough light to make the budding trees crisp against a bland sky. They aren’t moving. The pond is steady glass. The air is early-spring warm and utterly still, as though afraid if it breathed it would cease to be.

I can hear a mourning dove and some kind of chirpy thing, both chanting their Lauds, each in its own way. I can also hear the rainwater draining into the pond, a gurgling antiphonal to the birdsong. There is an occasional car which sounds far away. Mostly I am swathed in quiet. I feel like an intruder, but I stay, also trying not to breathe.

Have you ever wanted to put a moment in your pocket so you could pull it out again when you need it?





Connections: January 7.18

Behind the brambly trees,

near distant,

the horizon burned,

color of gladiola

I have summer-seen,

but quick to cool,

lost to cinder grey

though I stretched my hand

to stop it —

ashen sky now

ashen snow —

the awning on the swing flaps

like trapped bird,

winter warming laps

at frozen ground,

then ice.