so it goes

finding my memory
in more and more spaces
driven by scents sounds colors
that exist
in the air of time
which we silly beings say
passes.

#17. Long Isle Pastoral

September 13, 2009

a green blurb of a thing
black and red
foundation houses
skated roofs
against a brassy sky
hazy (or lazy
silver cloud lining
copper
blue
somewhat deep sound of wave
slap
against the sailboat
i wanna be the mast.

On winter’s shoreline

between rocks wet
with color and the distant sound
of children sledding
on plastic bags
I smell low tide
barnacle glue.

Sit with my back to the obvious
view of sight and sound.

Eye twists
and gulls become ancient
clipper ships caught between home
harbor and an empty bi-valve
destined to become sand
on this beach.

How the colors fade with drying
how I dry with years flying.

Melancholy driftwood and the ice
down by the pond.
Tears are worth more than failures
certainly more than small victories.

The bright geometry
of a winter day is useless
without the guilt
of playing hooky from a thousand and two
lists of chores.

Step across through the day
across virgin snow fields past
the house warm chimney smoke showing
flowers are only imagination today
but how lovely they look there.

Dark green rhododendrons smell june-like in january’s thaw.

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