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.
Adirondacks
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.
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.
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.