Seasons

I don’t want to leave,
says the girl
from her mother’s lap,
and already the
snow is melting.

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Harvest Eclipse

Each year, I forget
how fearless
the eloquence of autumn,
these cell-humming yellows
that shatter the sky
in the sepia sunlight
of Septembers.

Again, winter is coming-
moving our bodies,
yours and mine,
one turn closer
toward that final night.
And despite this endless wheel,
or perhaps because if it,
my heart reaches up to the heavens
and erupts into one million
unexpected stars.

Give me the quiet
of a blood red moon,
pregnant in its proximity,
and no less sublime
for the darkness
it has become.

Sestina of a Storm

Inside the pane, snowflakes resume falling.
She watches a screen diagram blue radar ripples,
a cyber shore-break of storm stacked on storm,
and dreams she is swimming inside the snowy house,
between the cresting drifts, searching for a memory,
the echo of a song.

It reminds her of him, this song.
She leans into sleep and soon she is falling
into the sea of cortex and the memory
of a voyage through blue hemispheres and tidal ripples.
He lived on a sailboat then, his vessel house,
thirty feet of fiberglass to take them through the storm.

This was not his first storm,
so he soothed his progeny crew with a shanty song
full of sailors’ words not allowed in their mother’s house.
The boom swung, and they clung to rails of polished teak, falling
down the prow into the centers of concentric ripples
expanding and expanding like the beginnings of a memory

that stretches beyond memory,
past the grey matter of a Pacific storm,
and deep into the undersea ripples
of a lifetime or more, where if a girl is lucky, a pirate song
might send her mind a’ falling
through the temporal house

of her own innocence, so that perhaps within the blue house
of her adulthood, she will recall how to fashion a sturdy sail from a moonlit memory
and winch the halyards tight, even now, as the mercury is falling.
To trust the wind is to fathom the subtlety of storm,
so she sights her sextant with a song,
humming softly beneath ripples

of cloud and sky, celestial ripples
turned to diamonds over a winter’s house,
battened down this night with a mother’s song –
the newest pebble in a pool of memory,
as Polaris glows softly through the storm,
by the moon forever falling.

Stories make ripples like skipping stones, and memory
surrenders, like a quiet house, to each passing storm,
while the waves play their endless song, and the snow just keeps on falling.

Return

It is inevitable.
You must return
to stillness. As the nights

grow longer, and the veil
thins between
this world

and the next,
let your body be
the instrument

that guides you
back to the sweet dusk
of your own quiet

emptiness. Linger here
fearlessly,
with your holy breath

and your tranquility,
for sorrow
is the exfoliation

of the soul
and compassion,
the candle 

that will light you
through the
darkness.