in the morning

 "And, but, and or get you pretty far!"

                -- Conjunction Junction

and there is the Sun,
mellow this morning
as if wondering
if this world
is worth shining on.
but, seeing the dew,
playing in the fallen
maple leaves
she rises for a peek
and refracts,
slow-
ing
ever
so
slight-
ly
as she passes through
the droplets,
exciting some electrons
who are happy to see her
or maybe
have been awakened too soon
and dread leaving the comfort
of home.

In Spectrum

It is only a trick of light,
this moment at dawn
as the Earth rolls in
the light of the Sun,
but this shadow play
connects
this time
with time before
and allows my mind to see
what in full daylight
might cause concern
showered
in tangerine and alabaster
and allows me
to strip away
excess
and see
bare truth
but
it is only
a trick of light.

My Morning Tea

I imagine the flavor
to be jasmine
as I shuffle through
the leaves,
pale yellow yesterday,
the morning rain
has darkened them a shade.
The next block
smells of cranberry,
if only in my mind,
the deep reds of the oak
temp me with a spectrum
running amaranth near the trunk
to amber further out.
I carefully select a pile,
scooping them into a puddle
where I stand
until the water
permeates my shoes.
I squish away.
Happy.

Amethyst Shadows

The gray November skies
are easier
to take
when first viewed
as the Sun
burns
on the horizon,
announcing the day
with brilliance
and honor
and amethyst shadows,
rather than
first noticing
fields of gray
through unfocused eyes
and wondering
if the day
even chose
to start.

Light Sheet

Imagine morning light
as a sheet,
coating all it touches,
offering a brief spotlight
to the magic of the ordinary,
causing one to pause
and wonder,
did the one who
imagined this building
stand here and see
a tin roof
playing with maple leaves
under a rose-orange
November
light?

Approaching Aubergine

This morning
the crescent moon
battles
the approaching sunlight
for brilliance,
standing out
even more
against the steadily blueing sky.
Knowing he fights with only
reflected glory,
he soon will settle back,
brilliant still,
but this time
on his own terms.

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.

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.