Rust and Umber

I can always write about leaves,
fallow and fawn,
rust and umber,
their sound, amplified it seems,
crushing
under my feet,
reaching my ears
with percussive sounds
like cymbals crashing and hissing.
The wind winds through
adding a texture to the sounds
just as I pass a playground
in full orchestra,
children's voices carried
and twirled about,
twined together
as one instrument
punctuated
by the occasional staccato shriek.
I tap out a beat on my thigh
as I let my ear buds dangle,
and my feet shuffle
through the next pile of leaves.
I can always write about leaves.

I knew I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque

Delicate lines of frost
have appeared on the sunroom window.
Absorbing the early morning sun
they put me in mind of a map,
hubs and spokes,
urban areas connected
via single lines which run through
vast expanses of prairie,
touching countless lives
while I sip hot coffee,
then exhale,
forever changing the map.

It Could be any Window

The cheerful scarecrow
in my front yard
startles me
as I look out of the window.
This out of place figure,
resplendent in fall colors,
pulls my breath
from my body
and causes my vision to swim
as I imagine
the terrors which
(may)
(please, no)
await my daughter.
I turn from the window
and pick her up,
protecting her,
while I still can.

This Dance, Again

Brittle November leaves
cross over the face of the full moon
as they swirl
and dance
and giggle,
giving the illusion of great motion
but finally coming to rest
inches from where they began
waiting
for their next chance
to dance.





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A Matched Set

She carries mischief
around in a bag,
like so much pixie dust
she can pull out
and throw in the air,
catching the sunlight,
making her eyes sparkle
(green then blue).
She smiles, knowing that,
while daddy pretends to be
beyond mischief,
a small tug can pull him back
from beyond,
creating magic
under mommy’s rolling eyes.