Kite Hill

Dry stalks

fragile and luminescent

like thin glass tubes

reflect gold and darkness, light and shadow.

And further: a field sprinkled with daisies,

a lake, a vista of marching snow-capped mountains

in a pearly scarf of cold mist.

The grass glows like a myriad emeralds,

the trees have lost their stark winter look

the branches are still transparent,

but leaf buds are tinting them with yellow,

each smiling the quiet smile of a pregnant woman:

the mystery of creation.

Sunny young voices

tug on invisible strings 
kites up on high 
and their fathers.

April-June 2012

Holidays

A woman carrying a platter with food still warm

In the semidarkness of the long hallway, slightly swaying her hips,

leaves a trail  of tantalizing smells and indistinct memories

in her wake like a time-traveler’s ship

caught in the ice-fields of the past

Children look up at the table where their mother’s hands

fly over  the dough, kneading, shaping

The sounds of  oil hissing on the stove

Minced meat in a bowl and nut shells on the floor

A fantastic world of holidays and unconditional love.

Vampires and Voyeurs

I blame the Moon, my pallid-faced friend,

Who drags me out into the empty alleys,

Where footsteps echo like a boisterous drum

And fragrant leaves cling to a fragile trellis.

She is to blame that I am here, alone

A passing specter by a glowing window  

That thirsts for taste of some unknown life

And plunders dreams that curl up on your pillow.

I look inside and play a guessing game:

Who left a glass upon this cold table?

Whose maps and lamps adorn apartment walls?

What song she sings over that wicker cradle?

I watch a boy that stares back at night

Perhaps he dreams of other times and places

I feel his loneliness and hear his silent call

I catalogue his face and hundreds other aspects.

Back into shadow, slinking in,

my footsteps weave a different pattern,

As I dissolve among dark dancing leaves

The Moon blows out her magic silver lantern.