Yellowstone Love

slowly comes the wind
across steaming waters

swirling spirits soaring

sulphur rich silence
blending love and pleasure

time stops

and the intensity of the sun
fills the basin of our hearts
where we dance in the shadows of our souls

suspended waiting

love waiting like a weight

like the weight of the lake
on its bed

like the weight of the bubbling
of our own murky depths

the purple night of our souls
sealed
healed
by breath of your breath
and sigh of your sigh

Dad

I see your
silhouette on the ridge
like a shadow in reverse....

my heart sinks with the sun
old man-leaning back
as if to remain
in yesterday

while the present portends
the inevitable,

longing
for missed opportunities
overwhelms the spirit
and my soul cries out to meet you

before the coming of the night.

Old

"old" requires looking back,
it is expected by some, and,
as the future narrows
to a thin perspective,

loving opens the heart...

like the view from a valley floor,
change evolves from the top
of a ridge

and the cleft of your breasts
is comfort
in a valley of shadows

Strange Meadowlark

this bird flies
a fluttered blur
all flurry on the rise
then silohetted,
fury at rest
behind puffed breast
well lost in flight

like a kite
on a lost wind
it drops,
gathering again
finally to sit
eating rocks

its song
a searching melodious grit
sailing after lunch embarked:

there's something strange
about a meadow larked...

Haiku

Sunset:
trees growing
bats soaring
moths die
do I hear crying?


Sunset:
beetles boring
bite-dust drops
on lizard tracks:
paisley print-dirt.

The little red bug

A little red bug is crawling
on a type-written page:

All those pre-planned words
babbling beyound its feelers...

it disappears when it crawls
onto a period...

escaping only when it flies...

Perhaps flight
is the only escape
from
not being able to communicate...

Choosing flight to bridge the gap
organized between

words
endings
hyphens

isolates their defined nature

not being able themselves
to burst into spontaneous flight...

Walking

Walking

is a dance;

without

within,

measured by

only

what a head does
to ordinarily happy feet.