For the Birds

Last night my dreams began to hide mystery.
I cried out in fright.  The previous day
I worked so hard to remove the mundane
from each step I took and to look,
to look seriously, with a playfulness
I had not known in years, at the ordinary
things surrounding my life.

To have the world of my imaginings
threatened by the way things are
frightens me.  The birds gathering
on snow-covered limbs continue
to sing into the cold no matter 
how the light may play across the ground.
Perhaps life is for the birds.


Trailing a chased desire turned memory,
Age creeps and twists to white life's diadem.
The bench of old men sit in reverie
Asking wisps of air shimmering before them:
“Where did our time go?”  Hours fade and turn.
Withering petals whirl and glance to ground.
“To dust?”  Not yet.  Ashes of flesh still burn,
Yearning for the touch of a lover soon found.
Hidden among pale towns in and out of mist
She dances on lanes of glittering stone.
Outstretched arms encompass all and, kissed,
Inhabitants touch their cheeks, each alone.
     Wonder grows and grows to eternity.
     Human and being wrapped in mystery.