Ordinary

Harvesting the ordinary magic
of a moonless night.
Foot falls on concrete,
creating the illusion
that my path
runs counter
to the rotation
of the Earth
and, somehow,
my small movements
extend the moment
enough
so I may notice
the wind, blowing through
autumn leaves,
hits many of the notes
of a spring breeze
but hidden in its song
rings
winter.

Beauty tried to hide

Under matted hair
and mottled clothes
she shuffled through
wet grass and fallen leaves,
picking up stray slugs
and carrying them to safety
before cloaking herself
under piles of orange
and umber.
But green eyes
and giggles
give her away.

Shadow Play

Long shadows
play in ponds,
making ripples
without making waves.
Water strider’s
skate through the shadow
touching the surface
barely more.
Light, playing games
as it stretches and yawns,
creating day
from darkness.

The Distance Between

Trying to forget about time.
That seconds
bleed into minutes,
into hours.
That somewhere, on a line,
there is a point
waiting for me.
This moment should exist,
pure and unencumbered
by mounds of ticks
or blankets of tocks.
Yet my ability to exist,
here and now
fails me,
as does the sun
as it rises higher,
robbing me of
my moment in amber.
So I curse,
brew coffee
and start the day,
lest it start without me.

The Water Clock

Water
d
 r
  i
   p
    s
and flows
and fills
         t
         u
         b
         e
         s
            flow
which over/
        then
           d
            r
             i
              p
and flow
and fill flasks,
then bulbs
as the rhythm of time
moves forward,
relentlessly forward
until it is full.
Then it drains
and begins to fill

itself again.

* The water clock in this piece is from the Children's Museum in Indianapolis. We had a very nice visit.

The Next Sound You Hear

The pack of runners

hustle past with the sound of

athletic shoes on gravel

and snippets of conversation.

On another day

I would join them

but today, it feels like an invasion

by those whose measure distance

in miles

while I measure distance

in the time between ridges

on the bark

of a one hundred year-old oak.

Redefined Oasis

Heat
radiates from progress.
Blacktop and concrete,
redefined oasis,
melting my resolve.
Feet ache as they melt
and meld,
ceasing to be a part of me
but becoming a part of it.
Wishing for rain
but knowing it brings
only brief salvation
as the dial changes
from bake
to poach
and nasty.

* In response to Three Word Wednesday