Wind is still.
When she comes to keep
moon company,
she sits on the lonely stone
& moon does nothing.

Air sings to her stillness
grass dances, trees wave oaken limbs, and wind
is still, all things move in her presence.
As she arrives, there is
song and dance in the fields and canyons
and across the waters

Do the hawks love me
like i love them? Stopped in awe
they return my gaze.
Do the trees see my beauty
like i see theirs? Receive love.

on a fog beach day
she is horizon line light
between sky and sea

Watching wishes &
washing my heart
with its longing

Gleaning street lit night
avenues for wisdom amidst the littered
thoughts and forgotten beliefs
that tumble down midnight sidewalks
with scraps and trash. I
beg the wanderer for her insight
and ask the widow for compassion
searching street lit moments
for my body, something
only starlight reveals.
& yet the moon and her children
are concealed by city light
illuminating instead
the shuffling leftovers of madness

The quiet concrete
filthy with its ignorance
of night sky.

mesmerized and bathing
in birds’ song. They cease and my mind
soars in all directions

beckoned once more
by their flirtatious whistling
free and in love with limited finitude

even the grass soars
in the abyss of quiet thinking, but some song
brings each blade
into its form
and we see each other
hear songs, bow, and meditate
on one another

Standing in liken-strewn
oak branches watching morning steam
from fallen red, brown leaves.
Fog is a sigh as sun
carries its heavy breath away
from dew-stricken meadow grass.
Open palms in communion with
mossy oaken limbs and soles
of feet warm atop dirt I
wish I had a poem to write.
I wish this moment could know
how I feel for it


Skin is moss
vibrant on oak bones
Hair is green whisps of
long liken tangled
in sunlight

Digging my feet in I
want to be as still as you, Oak
with roots like yours
and a sturdy gaze
in all seasons

Sweet sunset dust
kicks up
in my windscape heart
Spiraling flecks caught
in dusk hues
of winter wind

The following, titled as Roman numerals, are a series of poems I wrote during a solitude retreat in pine-forested, open-meadowed nature. Here is the first one:

Wrapped in curtains the
cabin and I are blind
to fields of quiet stars
and darting coyotes
beneath windy oak branches


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