She Of The Field

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Her stripes will never be white-washed
Her rudbeckia sun
Will never be tilled under
Love!
What cheapness have you done?

Your patch of earth, a briar field
Tall thistle lines your way
When beauty comes to ask you
Dear!
What answer will you say?

Justice

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The Sun
Has no explaining
Nor does the long grass
The angle
The path
They’ve permitted

Justice
I won’t require
Or hold feet to the fire
Of the Squirrel
Stealing, running
From my garden

The Plan

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I suppose that you are made of stealth pilot stuff
You see me as commanding from strong eagle wing
I’ll prove how your heart is stronger for its freefall
You affirm my pain-filled flight has not stolen hope

workman

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i count the Lies
discarded so effortlessly
They float like feathers
from Your lips
and are my bible


i count the Zeros
carved painstakingly
They scar like stains
on my skin
and are Your poiēma

Mutual

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No almanac, none oracle
Nor history’s siren scream
But distraction, escapism
Forecasts the darkest dream

The future finds us lonely, friend
Though close is what we want
While we commune with empty eyes
As solitary haunts