She is so often present
as the sun makes its
daily retreat, we
imagine she is
mysterious as
she hides, or
does she take
refuge in the shadows.?
Only a few
have truly seen her
and they speak only
of her luminescent
alter ego.
THE DARK SIDE
retreat
DUSK
There is nothing like, no
words to adequately describe,
that moment when a cloud-
hazed sun lingers wishfully
just above the horizon, grasping
the sky with brilliant talons
of light, fearing becoming
lost in a darkness that will,
on this night of the new moon,
engulf us all in its inky shroud.
We know, or pray, the sun
will return in hours, just
as the sun knows its work
is never done so long as it
has light to give, hoping
that final collapse is eons away.
As it finally settles beyond
sight, we smile, retreat
to the table and consume
our dinner and wine, our
daily companion forgotten
until its dawning return.
CECI N’EST PAS
This morning the sky
is a painting by Magritte
as it is most days, no title
Ceci n’est pas un ciel.
The birds rise from
the wetland as Escher
would imagine them,
the small wetland
once a place that
might be painted by
Monet on a day when
he cared nothing
for water lillies, but now
a jungle of Gauguin.
We wait for the return
of the flocks as the sun
makes its retreat
and imagine again
a blazing sky over Arles.
EMERGENT
When I least expect it, one
may unfurl wings and lift
into a clouded sky searching
for the hidden sun, or
it may wander off, a child
momentarily free of parents
off to discover the real world, or
it may retreat back into
the pen, unwilling to be seen,
objecting to its misuse, or
it may sit in front of the TV
and watch soap operas
and game shows, not caring
what is on the screen, just
escaping from the damned page, or
it may sit still, be tucked away
and hope one day to be accepted
for all the world to see.
THE PROMISE
The moon has gone past full
and as waning as I write,
it’s slow retreat hopefully taking with it
the burden of winter, that we now
must measure in feet, the inches
having been heaved up, one upon another.
Spring will come soon
for a taste of it, for spring
is an inveterate tease, preferring
to appear only long enough
to let the melting snows
floor around, and to occasionally
into our homes, so that we,
maps and markets in hand,
pause to dream of the summer
which we now doubt will ever appear.
RETREAT
At meals they sit
elbow to elbow
in silence,
on the mat
shoulder to shoulder
staring into the wall.
You know that most
are searching
deep in the silence
and they grow sad, finding,
the question is always
just beyond grasp.
She stays behind,
sits alone on her mat
calm in the interbeing.
NIGHT ARRIVES
As night advances,
the clouds march
in slow retreat
to the horizon
under the tattoo
of the crows
cadenced cawing.
Once gone
from sight,
under the always
watchful moon,
they shall
regroup and prepare
to reemerge
in the first shadow
of the sun of morning.
THE SKY
The sky is the leaden gray
that denies the sun
and threatens the moon’s arrival.
It presses down on the roofs
of the talest buildings,
wraps them in a depression
those on the street below feel
without need of looking up.
This is a teasing sky-
a drop here, there, until
we know we are on the razor’s edge of rain.
The sky laughs at us
as it retreats into the night.
an old writer and his words 