Those That Fly


 I cried today

not emotional sobbing

nor tormented wails

but soft and gray

like a February drizzle
I shed no tears

for lost lovers or slain dreams

as I walked brown fields

and gazed on barren trees

but for the lone hawk
driven to the ground

by a flock of crows,

who could not fly

as high as she.

Southern Night, December Sky


In a breathe of crisp air,
a moment of stillness
I lift my eyes and see her
dressed in purple velvet,
beset with points of star glitter
and full moon’s silver light.

She sleeps over naked trees
reaching up to touch her belly
with still arms, stiff arms.
She rests a world apart

from us who scurry
over muddy ground
from cars to houses
then back again, from gift giving
and turkey dinners, from lit trees
and loud voices.

My heart beats deeper

for her beauty
and my spirit
leaps for life beyond
its clay foundation.