Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

And so a new storm begins,
wintering, icicles suckling the gutters of rooves,
cars parked paradoxically,
damned if you don't and damned if you do.

And me, freed as a golden leaf, migrating
south-westerly, radically tempestuously and
poetically uninhibited.

Finally liberated, I've come out of hibernation,
admittedly into more than one season,
but I never could stay in one situation
for more than what felt like an extended
vacation.

And so I am swept up in squalls of high speed
wind warnings, subject to unpredictable
formings, like a dinghy left tied up to
a pier in hurricane season. Every morning
brings a new surprise, a new pair
of sleepy, loving eyes.

And it's all love, all of it, even in storms,
it's all natural, love's many forms of
worship and pining, tracks wind through
the snowfall, cross, intersect, roll into
snowpeople, cascade back into fallen angels,
and melt into one another impermanently.

And in the morning, nobody knows for sure which tracks are
mine, and which ones are yours, never
completely.

Virgin snow on Monarch Pass CO

the loneliest feeling in world
is no tire tracks in front of you and headed up a mountain.

The foolish things I have done because I was ashamed of my fears.


take care

rose out of an ocean,
four score and a billion years ago,
to flow back in due time,
a passing shower, for now.
no snow, it was August,
my life as a water cycle,
a cloud caught on the mountain.
i never cared much for the ocean.