Poetry

02/10/2014

Today's wind grips the
cedars like a two-year-old
petting her new cat.

Proud young clouds show off
apricot-colored peach fuzz
in the setting sun.

Orange ink smears the sky;
pink tentacles slowly flee
toward the purple east.

Hoarfrost creeps across
the lawn; clouds settled on a
sea of shattered grass.

Mist obscures the third
streetlight; the end of the world
waits outside my gait.

My shadow wears a
black halo; fog refracts what
light can wrap my frame.

Drunk with recent rain,
rose hips congenially
bob their messy heads.

Jagged white fangs of
a frozen Hurricane rip
through blood-coated clouds.

A cold rain clicks the
leaves like a skilled typist's nails
on old-fashioned keys.

Streetlight glistens through
thinning maple leaves; raindrops
slip from pointed tips.

Summer mists weave their
gossamer strands into thick
webs of autumn rain.

Coldest morning in
months; exhaling, I see my
hidden spirit form.

A world made white, though
not with snow; autumn mist to
chill my aging bones.

My skittish dog sees
dead people roaming in the
heavy morning mist.

Mist condenses on
the canopy; slow rain falls
underneath the tree.

Hot red lights slice the
morning fog; angry shouting;
police intervene.

Trees and buildings blend
together. Even street lights
disappear today.

Unseasonable
heat cascades down Puget Sound;
natives seek the beach.

Creeping fog devours
the Sound, licks the hills, consumes
the trembling stars.

Electric buzz cuts
the quiet; orange light chews
through the thick blue fog.