Silver Morn

Water and ice,
Dripping and freezing on
Lichen-covered branches
Crystalline silver on pale not-green

What is the color of lichen covering the trunk, branches and bare limbs of the maple trees outside my window?
To those of the wood, it is
Familiar; identifiable; recognizable.
The undergarments of northern woods,
Exposed on branches laid otherwise bare by autumn.
Creamy, pale, velvety.
Definitely not green. But what?

I see now how well it matches the color of the walls here in my living room.
That was not intentional.

Sea foam green. Perhaps.
Though in all my years living near and gazing at the sea,
I've seen the ocean's many colors,
Angry and dark, deep greens and blues
Playful sheets of shimmering light
But I've never seen the ocean render the color we call sea foam.

Psych ward green. Perhaps.
Cool, calming.
But no, it is far too sensual for such attribution.

Upon such examination & reflection,
I shall never see the branches as bare again.
The trees exposing their dainties when they drop their leaves for the winter. The hardwood forest a giant burlesque show that opens each fall and runs until spring
Shy and demure in a gentle snow,
Raucous and wild as a nor'easter blows blizzard-like across the canopy

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Christmas Prayer (or Pastor's Lament)

I lay me down, not sure the reason,
For I can't sleep in Christmas season
When all around me, here and there,
Apathy hath filled the air.
Come Christmas Eve or Christmas morn
Its not about the Savior born
Fellowship? Good News spread?
That egg nog's gone right to your head!
Good pastor, you this Church must grow
But don't disturb the status quo
(Especially the Christmas Show,
It's very special, don't you know?)

Good Christians all (I'm pretty sure)
Come walking weekly through our door
And rush to chat up the rare new face
That finds its way into God's place
Did I say God? Oh, heavens me!
What I meant was Church Trustee.
But just for now I simply pray
That God will grant another day
That I might use to do His will
And grant me sleep, that's better still!
I'll take His testing 'round the clock
For the privilige to guide His flock.

Non

How many years has it been since something like togetherness had passed between the two? Without empathy, each retreats to his and her own inner sanctum. Except the one is oblivious to all of this, for she thinks only in the here and now, the moment of cause and effect. And the other sees it all too clear, the big picture and future consequence in all its miserable minutia. One is reductive while the other is deductive. She lives in the now, dissolving quickly into the past. He lives in the now, sliding relentlessly into the future. Both are miserable in the now. But while her loose connection to the present allows her to just roll over & go to sleep, as if nothing ever happened, his long view to tomorrow's horizon connects this daily misery into an endless, unbroken stream.

Last Walk (Warm Adirondack White Night)

Clingy and moist, white as linen, a warm snow has settled like frosting at Cedar Eden and turned the landscape into the proverbial picture postcard. A snowplow roars down at Donnelly's Corner, splashing yellow through the trees as it maneuvers to clear the broad way. Light from the house and from the garage illuminates the scene, reflected on the fresh, new snow. Warm and calm - Adirondack t-shirt weather - and the whole outdoors has that "new snow" smell, so much more satisfying than that "new car" smell. The dogs sniff footprints, then head for the front door, young dog bounding, old dog limping along. Last walk of the night over, we all settle in, each of us curled up in our favorite spot, slowly drifting to sleep in the comfort of wood stove warmth.

Full Moon No Sleep

Mind still whirls at 3AM. Night rests dimly alight, full moon pale on thin clouds and a dusting of snow, like candlelight on plaster and alabaster, pearloid and mother of pearl. Or like the ineffective light switches of childhood nightmares, throwing darkened rooms into brooding, shadow-filled caverns.

In odd contrast, my dog sleeps snugly against my left leg, her breath occasionally whistling through her nose with a sound remarkably like the call of the Eastern Meadowlark. Heavy sigh, quiet snuffling like a pygmy wart hog, and the mood casts again from spring meadow to Frau Blucher's dungeon.

When dimly lit, winter night shadows are the deepest Ektachrome blue. But I can take no more, and must somehow salvage an hour or two of sleep. And so hit send, with further analogies left un-analogyzed.

The World: You. Me. Life.

Do we live in a simple world or a complicated world? I think we live in a world we simply, as in unnecessarily, complicate. I feel blessed that once or twice in my life I have been able to pierce that vail of unnecessary complication and open the eyes, soul and heart of another . . . to connect deeply, completely. It isn't easy to rip open the bubble that keeps us from achieving the possibilities of the here and now. It is even more difficult to convince a kindred soul to rip through hers so that you may each stretch out your arms and truly grasp unfetterred love. A foggy night on a city bridge where nothing but love shouts to the skies and slowly wins over the reluctant partner. Poems and stories shared, unveiling a love whose breath never coincided to light the embers of a hidden, shared fire. A cautious, reluctant dance of words around music: two worlds, one passion.

Life, the world, is simple. We complicate it every time we put up a barrier to connecting heart to heart. Heart to heart, it burns united, it rips shredding agony when pulled apart, but stokes the furnace of life if simply allowed to burn its natural course. For me, its never been that fabled two hearts as one for ever and ever. Yet, I gladly carry the pain and scars for the loves that have been.

I love the idea of love.

Me. You. Something. Here. Now.