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.
