Center

That I sit here
surrounded by
crayon drawings
of big headed girls
(she’s in her big head phase)

and photographs of family
sometimes startles me,
as
looking back,
I identified with
(then) planet Pluto.
The smallest
furthest away
speck of a world
and I marvel
at the collisions
which brought me
here.
Center.

What is this daytime you speak of

Morning
distinguishes itself from night
only in the quantity
of gray light it provides.
The rain still falls,
pulling color from life
as it washes down.
School buses splash by,
no longer yellow
but drifting in to
goldenrod
on their way down spectrum.
The color white
is only an abstract idea,
a Platonic ideal,
that exists
only in a perfect world
where perfect rain
reflects
perfect sun
and warms
souls.

Cabbage

Perhaps I’ll dance,
this afternoon,
while snowflakes cascade down,
clinging to my eyelashes,
blurring my vision,
presenting me a kaleidoscope world
where I’ll spin until
I’m too dizzy to stand,
so I’ll fall harmlessly
into a pile of leaves
then roll
into the cabbage patch
and see
if my head
stands out
in the crowd.

Whenever the Grays meet the Blues

Sandwiched between harsh light
and gray windows
I choose gray light
where at least a water color sky
offers cold greeting
and the small remains of yellow
dot the still green grass.
I color in the rest with red socks
and blue sleeves
before confronting the first day
of melancholy.
Perhaps I’ll dance
this afternoon.

Forced Focus

Dense fog

forces me to focus

on the world

in front of my eyes.

The horizon is a myth.

Turning the corner

reveals

November chrysanthemums,

burnt orange and butter

against

the gray-white fog,

brilliant color

planted

as though knowing

this day would arrive.

Revealed

only in the shroud.

Once Upon a Sidewalk

Darkness falls earlier.

Shorter days and time change,

change the atmosphere

of a simple walk downtown.

Shorter days and time change.

Downtown feels cosmopolitan

though it’s only three blocks long.

Lighted windows and inviting warmth.

Downtown feels cosmopolitan.

Coffee shops and frozen custard.

College students à la mode

smiling at the one holding my hand.

Coffee shops and frozen custard.

Frozen treats from the warmth of inside.

Looking out at the sidewalk, watching

as home passes by the window.

Why we have more than sight

Lying on my back,

under a tree,

in the woods,

wanting to capture

the perfect image

of a leaf in descent.

It seems important

to try and focus

on one leaf

among millions.

That there is something

one flight

against blue sky

can say.

But warm sun

distracts me,

begging me

to close my eyes

and listen

to the woods

whisper

and sigh.

I can hear

the sound of leaf

on leaf

as they crash

to the ground

with all the force

they can muster.

A slip of sound,

never noticed,

perhaps

only imagined.

Pushed or Fallen

She sits

at the furthest edge

of the playground.

Knees up toward her chin,

holding the notebook

in which she has sketched

the delicate leaves

which have fallen

to the asphalt

in front of her.

Small bits of beauty

but,

like herself,

they are sketched

each one,

alone.

Some Days, I Hate Yellow

Yellow streetlights
Against yellow leaves
Throw me into a sepia toned world,
Where the streetlight
throwing my shadow
flickers and dances
as gas burns.
My frock coat opens
in the breeze,
exposing my waistcoat
in the light
for just a moment
before the light
winks out of existence,
leaving me in a darkness
not experienced since childhood.
The world smells different,
both cleaner
and dirtier
depending on the shifting winds.
I blink
and it’s gone.
I stand, shod is ASICS,
jacketed in fleece,
transfixed by yellow.

Carry On

With one pull of the rake
the wasps nest bounces
to the top.
So light
as to belie its very substance.
Hexagonal walls
still intact,
offering resistance
to my hand
as pressure is applied.
Beauty in design
I could never
replicate.
Nor want to,
as the master
of this craft
lives here
today.

Another Ordinary

"I know it sounds a bit cliché
There's no such thing
As just an ordinary day " - Phineas and Ferb

She shuffles through
the piles of leaves
at the edge of the trail,
then clambers up onto a stump,
posing for a photograph.
As I snap the sun washed scene
it occurs to me that this is, perhaps,
the thirteenth
or fourteenth photograph
from this same spot.
The first, of a small girl,
barely walking, who needed to be picked up
and placed on the stump
while her mother worried she might fall.
This last, for now, of a girl
tall enough to ride
a roller-coaster.
I discretely wipe my eyes
as I tuck away
another ordinary day.