A Passing Phase

First, bird song rings
through the darkness.
Then salmon dawn
swims in upon the mist,
tints the low lying fog.
Tree tops float.
Forgetting their roots,
they mingle, oak
with pine, cypress
with poplar.
A faint rustle rises
of leaves in communion.

As the sun gains height
and burns off the fog,
the canopy rediscovers
a stolid, brown midsection
and hidden foundation,
grasps tight the earth
it will not yield
except to lightning
or the rot
of old age.

Where The Heart Lies

The rare walk in the woods
fills memory
with its bird calls,
the scamper of squirrels
from limb to limb,
their leaps between trees.

Spring beds of may apples,
faint breath of air in summer heat,
the autumn tinge of sassafras,
winter bare limbs.

I follow the forest paths
of deer along ridges,
ground falling away
on both sides, then down
to rivulets and dry branches
far beneath, fingers
from Horse Creek
a mile away.

The brass clang
of the dinner bell
echoes across time
with vague recollections
of spider webs
and catching thorns
on the way back,

arrives at a landing
then three stairs
to a luncheon menu
rotating between
unspoken agenda,
bitter invective
and cold rage.

My entry for dVerse Poets’ Pub Open Link Night #43