the slate not so much clean… just empty

finding comfort in the abstract beauty of joys and sorrows

this calmness smooth as a polished jewel in my hand

what do you know about how to be a tree ?

love– the soft glow in the center of your self

a portrait, perhaps of a beautiful woman in pieces

growth from the compost of suffering

hard lines in the face of a rock violent history forged into beauty

yellow gold sunlit sky filled with low-hanging clouds perched on a highwire

fading twilight my heart sinks more deeply in- to the coming dawn

amalgamations– intricate inner workings and weathered edges

morning sit my heart pounds relentlessly against the stillness

sky, dirt, and gravel farm roads rolled out like magic carpet

smoke rises and beneath its turbid shield I, too, ascend

wintry, white canvas– gentle etchings of gray light and glint of snowflakes

feet striking cold sand the ache in my chest warms me

the touch of a hand– clouds of misgivings retreat into pure sky

where music once filled the emptiness a light yet shines

in cold, stone walls of certain ruination– a door to freedom

through a dark veil– a brief reflection of happiness

all things fade away even a brick foundation will crumble

mysterious gaze does she wonder if I’m real?

late afternoon light illuminates my colors

behind me the lake nearly frozen

dizzying madness we move at such a gallant pace– going nowhere

tiny spider spinning webs in the winds of a New World

ice-covered asphalt roads leading back to my youth– peaceful winter days

wasted energy doors sliding open and closed for mere reflections

day turns into night and night into day again my shadow keeps watch

this face weathered in the storm beauty sealed within

ceasing to exist in this uni- form

dancing with partners in my head, wondering what went wrong

deep furrows images of things seen and not seen

obsessed with the movement of light through the still dark night

this landscape– dry, seemingly unmoving to my untrained eye

torrential, falling through this vast empty space

a prompt: who am I? one word, one sentence, one trait– i am–transient.

thick, sturdy brick walls folding in and out elusive space

we go on and on living at the mere surface of our being

the earth keeps moving even when we have stopped

photographing stars trailing down like rain power lines buzzing

intersecting lines of power and light in the night sky

delicate lines alternating light and dark seasons of growth

one wish– to live free to fly high

loading wood– rusted metal chipping off the old truck bed

beauty and light at the end of the dark narrow mind

memories of snow capped mountains and chickadees and you at my side

pure light warmly beaming on green grass

over time old walls crumble and new ones are raised

the sun the earth, the water, the air the center