Now as a beam, you measure time
by the nights and days of shelter you provide,
absorbing laughter and tears into your fibers and history.
Dirt Road
that my way home is off the paved path.
The sound of tires on soil is my welcome song.
Shadow
to see the thing that is least visible.
Picasso
Is it wonder or awe or angst that it shares?
Could it be a wooden reflection?
Mosaic
Hive
Now they keep their honey hoard safe in the hollows of old trees.
Sunday Mountain
The wind still holds the echos of the Abenaki’s footsteps.
The soil cradles our carefully tended dreams.
Transition
of the movement
of Summer to Fall.
Visitors
Their other worldly beauty is hypnotic. You need not taste them to receive the magic.
Bench
Watch the dragonflies dance.
Discover the nurture of a moment of silence.
Village
is where the fairies set up their mushroom camp.
Pink
Floating
and grey seems the color of eternity, hang on to hope
for it can keep you afloat and mend your tattered faith.
Run Off
water always finds its way home.
Illuminated White
it must have been reflecting
the heart of the moon.
First Red Tree
the first touch of Fall, a splash of red,
presents itself along the southern bank.
River View
and watch the diamond dance of sunshine on water
as summer slides into fall.
Bridge
above the river, across state lines.
Community knows no jurisdiction.
Wind Chime
that makes the chime sound.
Cement Squirrel
that moves you from spot to spot
to enjoy the views of the garden.
Window Box
not even the high noon sun can wilt away
her pretty-fication.
Hearts
to the sun and the weather of the day
as the wind chime cheers them on
and a spider’s web holds them up.
Birdhouse
It is time to wing to the South.
Your house holds the echo of your song,
and awaits your return in the spring.
Nearness
Tim
seeks me
in the garden
small
white
butterfly
always
hovering
nearby
Ghost
that I glimpse
from the side of my eye
Darting through blossoms
resting on leaves
taking advantage of sunshine and breeze
Pointing out a shapely cloud
waiting on my mailbox
inquisitive antenna cocked
Reminding me
as mortality
rages on
death
is not
the final stop.
you are remembered.
Charlotte
I’d prefer it if you
left your messages outside.
Family Farm
The kitchen fills with the sound of hungry forks
and the quiet of resting work boots.
Rest
you may rest in the high weeds with the moon flower.
When it is time to till again you will carry the full weight of a man and his dreams.
Reeds
the geese know it is time to prepare for their pilgrimage south.
Reflections
roll across the river’s surface.
A moving picture that will only show once.
Flower Farm
row after row
awaiting their service of solace or celebration.