Dandelion dust

Restart the breath of spring, retake dew drops
as morning flows down the flute of nature’s spine.

Now yesterday’s bright petals grow paper sharp,
from hours of constancy fading like a subtle wind

while countless dawns suggest an ode (there is one here,
somewhere) inscribed on the bark of others’ dreams

and parched desires. Removing themselves from the minutes
they have pulled over and slowed for no reason

other than to inhale the river’s dust and wondrous deltas,
still under the endless lamp of time.


Swallowed with a gulp, the end of which
is still middle of somewhere,
going ebb over hands
with the silhouette of days.

Yeah, but it’s all gauze shadow-shirts
singing at the wind
trampling the fir
stirring up names for cravings.

Rushing one course again, what a mess
when it happens year-sure like this,
shooing the cat, a scatting tide
goes while winter, never.

Andante days

Where are the andante days of spring,
where gone their watercolor glow?
For now all leaves pass maple brown
while minds run glazed by snow.

The lanes soon grey and smooth with noise
of gusts rushing in to break
some sediment of yesterday
that these chill months cannot slake.

And yet the year leaps on anew
as full heart-heavy times can’t last
more than a lulling interlude
knows soon these skies will have passed.

Traffic and whispers

Drag out the story as long as eyespan will allow,
as meticulous as the ear leaning into words,
or count it as easy money, soul-light,
pavement-dropped and found with a single bend
sweeping it here and away, past and future
as good as never discovered, known or lost.

Veering in and out of traffic and whispers,
like late guests struggling to catch up
with the rattling clatter of winter’s party,
the crowd’s fascinations and coded music,
inexorably we linger, looking inward,
waiting for the stars to set

when the breeze bends, offering an opening
and wanting to follow suggestions down alleyways
into unknown alcoves and always
onward even after its final pages
close you out,
life knows us and leaves us in its seasons.

Spring Rains #2 (16 November)

Spring rains, where are you?

Your winding tracks   rivulets that stick
As tea leaves do, smudged remnants recall
Some hundred forgotten stains. We pick
Those we would wipe dry before they fall.

In one scene, your arm up-reaching to save,
We think, an apple trimmed too soon, displaced
By gravity’s truth. Palm upward-poised to pave
Soft earth might mute its falling, unbraced

For this metaphor to come unstuck
As hand, tree, apple all fall apart
When we realise we cannot pluck
Hope from life’s branches as birds start

In song. We cannot sing out in prayer for
Spring rains, though we need your afterglow,
Wait for epilogue to follow downpour
When the world breathes and this flow

Smiles itself dry.

Spring Rains (15 November)

Under open branches to grasp a falling
Apple saved from memory’s dappled traces,
Whose hundred blotted flaws or our recalling
Reveal sorry scars in blistered spaces.

Oh but these are winding tracks that stick
Like tea leaves to the cup’s cracked skin
Left out in yesterdays wept over, slick
With oily film a residue so thin

We barely notice its searing sting
This fresh-lit fire, palm-burning, soul-dropping
Wrenching away the song we sing,
No melody accompanies this lopping

Of another limb, another track lies
Blackening these salted fields, inking
This orchard dark against knowing eyes,
Spring rains make rivulets of our thinking.