The Storm is Coming

There is a sound

coming from behind

the mountain,

do you hear it?

It is cold wind

blowing through

a dark night,

moving us toward

a new kind of winter.

It is the first dawn

bird announcing

wake up, it is

an unstoppable

train, a once

distant chug rising

as one million

voices ascend

like a sun

and also like

a fist.


Waking Up on Friday

Orange sunlight
fills the body
still half

in a dream,
and slowly drips
consciousness all the way

down to the toes
and fingers.  In
the brevity of sunrise,

you are the impermanence,
like the dream
you are leaving,

a brief vessel
for the sweetest of birdsong
and the scent

of dew
rising through
the open window.