The week hangs from a Wednesday dangling a loop of dropped Saturdays and Sundays from an inversely symmetrical chain of Tuesdays and Thursdays; The mid-day clasp of a Wednesday opposites the dark medallion of Saturday night.
The same air, the same sea, the same molecules- these things don’t age unless arranged, organized by time to attempt a deed, accomplish a thing finite and resolute, a thing of lasting beauty like the sky.
A good poem always ends with an involuntary, shaky inhale, a gasp of sorts, but unique to the occasion, always a surprise, the threshold of either a tear or laughing, or trying to make another poem- (This is not a good poem)
Indian Summer Walking through town in Nederland Colorado at the peak of Indian Summer at 8500 feet above sea level, sky clear to the ozone, aspen trees acid yellow against the dissolving charcoal/green breaking moray of tapering evergreen and purple beetle-kill, the mundane smells of everyday life at midday- creosote, food frying, mingling with wild […]
I know how long it takes the chain to rust, the paint to peel, the grain to crust.
In the powdered donut drawer, a bank’s blue ballpoint pens. Beneath the white pine floor damp sand beds cedar cellar beams. Above the front screen door, the transom’s wavy pane’s trimmed, pinned with enough loving imperfection to shed a season’s rains in a blow, sweetening the chamfered glow.
Funny how nostalgia works. In the wowhaus (my tiny urban garden studio and namesake for www.thewowhaus.com) I missed the wild raging sea. Now that we live in a forest by the coast, I miss being in my cozy wowhaus, missing something like what I now actually have.