The Carving Stone
No quiet mirror holds the sky,
Where water breaks the mountain bone;
A rushing white that will not die,
Turned sharp against unyielding stone.
Field Notes
The Sentinel in the Mist
A bare gray spire keeps the ground,
Stripped clean of needle, cone, and crown;
The quietest watch that can be found
Before the frozen dark comes down.
The Neighborhood Fire
The sun drops low behind the eaves
To strike the maple in the drive;
A furnace built of autumn leaves
That keeps the neighborhood alive.
Suspended in the Blue
The bog holds no wind today.
Only the weight of sky fallen inward,
Where clouds drift upside down
Through five feet of peat and silence.
Amber on the Cedar
Pressed flat against the furrowed bark,
A golden frond outlives the green;
A lace of amber in the dark,
Where summer’s shadow once had been.
A Haven in the Light
The morning breaks across the stone,
Where patient paws and quiet eyes
Wait for a hand to call their own
Beneath the bright October skies.
The Patient Sentinel
Among the drying pickerelweed,
Where amber shallows catch the sun,
He stands as still as river reed,
Until the careless minnows run.
Cycles on the Line
The clouds hang low, the air is mild,
A corridor of paved-over ground.
Where once a boy, unhurried, wild,
Chased frogs along the creek unbound.
The Threshold of Dawn
The house rests easy in deep morning blue,
Its warm golden windows keeping night’s watch,
While silent lawns glisten with silver-bright dew,
Under tall spires of towering scotch.
Turning the Season
A calm gray blanket fills the skies,
Mild and still the morning wakes.
The air is soft before it flies
Into the season of frosty flakes.