Winter Walk

The silver paths beneath me rise, they brighten and sustain;
and I, by measured stride, rejoin their whited old refrain.

The snow—like fairest company—this night, has come to call
till barren branch and evergreen are heartened by its’ fall.

Till, luminous, the moon reveals the way upon the row
and I, in bright reflection, lose my burdens as I go.

Till boots conceal their little plots of white upon the track
then rise to leave their mark upon the polished silver back.

The silver paths beneath me rise; the night is bright as day;
and I, my measured stride, release beneath their drift and sway.

The Rising Of The Lake

Early morning, the lake is rising.
A shroud of mists veils
sullen surface tensions
and conceals murky passions.

A cold and weary night withdraws
from the slight granite moon
hung high, despite approaching dawn.
The hunkered sun, provoked and taunted,
once again confronts the darkness;
languid vapors, daunted, turn to run.

A forlorn host winks shyly
and nods to the yellow spy
now preparing to reveal
blue bright sky.

Generous, drab, the lake donates
an evolving portrait:
The Triumphant Return
(of wind and light, cloud and song).
Strains of “No Night There” are ringing
twixt the glints and ruffles of the offered painting.

Pacifier At Night

You wake in the night and sit there.
You can’t make it better
because you know
you’ve lost it.  You need help, so

you weep and wait.  By and by,
hands fumble through sheets
until they locate the hidden
place it came to rest.

Those same hands find you,
find your face, your
lips…okay, there you go.  Now,
lay your sleepy head on the pillow.