Of the Forests

Of the forests
Tendons dark rooted
Drawing towards dusk,
Retreating in blue haze-

If there is little to say
Then they will not speak-

If there is little to speak
Then they cannot say-

The ground lies under,
Always-

As night turns to day.

Winter's Pain

In my parlour of Winter
Pianos never played
Black keys covered with clear ice
Hammers nuzzle still to space
Lonely in undrafted air
Each silent note
Keening, lovely-

Oh, even you, Winter,
Struggling to speak,
Wanting your answer!

Mycillium

Too late for poetry
and too late for song
When we're too tired to sing
-and God knows it's late-
Spirit dries to tinder
Crackling, popping in the night's clear dark-

There's little to be thankful for, then,
But thankfulness

Little to be afraid of
But Thankfulness
-and how she pulled me from my fear-
A fear I'm afraid I cannot do without.

Fear rooted in air
Rotted in Earth
Mycillium and all the molds-

Crying in the thankful dark.

One to Ten

Pennies counted, colas founted
All the timely minds of men
will only count to ten
And beginning over once again.

Yet Seven sisters
Straight above your crown!
so lovely in their darkened crystal found-

But this is true, and truer plain in solar view:
Count every single tiny grain
That lies on bedrock's dusty plain
within both God's and Goddess's reach
-feeling every time-drenched beach
Yes, count them all, then, passing thrall,
Look up again-
And multiply the relaxing eye
(know them all up in that sky)

By one to ten.

Now: finding body deep in bed
Follow where the Soul hath fled-
And counting back from ten to one,
Take one more breath and counting's done.