Winter Rust

Time to brush away
The winter’s rust

Time for new growth
On naked branches

Spring is come

It’s just a road

It’s just a road
Through a place
Where the clouds
Dominate
The landscape

Sometimes
That
Is all
I need

I count the days, the hours
I count the weeks, the months
Until I can be me
Just me, again

Judge not this race by empty remains
Do you judge God by his creatures when they are dead?

~ Genesis, Watcher of the Skies

We create spaces
Walk away from them
Return, re-visit, renovate

We take what was
And make of it
Something else
Whether for utility
Or a statement

“Not all stormtroopers are bad,” she said, coquettishly, while her legs circled, sort of like the trick of a lioness’ tail just before she pounces.

“I hope at least one of them is,” I dead-panned.

She giggled, “Only in a good way!”

It is just a sink. A pair of them, actually. Hard used by the painters and construction for I don’t know how many feature films and TV shows.

A chill, damp, grey day
Empty picnic tables
In an empty park
Where all the leaves have fallen

What could say autumn more
With such spare beauty
And somber solitude?

I grew up in New England
Where the forests come alive
For just a while in October

The leaves turn colours
Unimaginable
Lighting mountainsides on fire

I wander through
Now empty halls
Of madness

Reflecting on
The inmate’s time here
Brings me sadness

In the darkness
I saw a light
And followed it

It lead to a window
Which would not open
And I could not see through

As much as I preferred
Being in the light
I returned to the darkness