The ghost of spring wanders here,
aimless and anxious and waiting
to be reborn in small immaculate petals.

With tiny timid steps it traverses
winter’s indifferent graying skies
longing to repaint the world verdurous.

How lithely it will bend itself to the task,
its eager fingers caressing these hills,
birthing blues and greens and such blessings.

I watch, and everywhere I go here,
each trembling step I take into this winter,
I see you—the very image of spring!

For in you fecund hope finds a wondrous home.
In you is life and laughter without equal,
and a beauty that deftly reaches beyond time.

Winter in Göreme, Turkey (Nov 2021)


this flight of fancy
fickle though it may be
defines so very nearly you

your angry urges
these too petulant dirges
merging strident anger and sorrow

your private passions
madly dancing like demons
with sweet voices and torn skin

how little did i know
this damning demanding you
cruelly cursing and ever dismissive

how foolish my ambitions
despair masquerading as hope
my soul loping across brittle decay

this night be ended
bending briefly and repentent
to claw this clay into most fecund dust

Dead Horse Point

Dead Horse Point, Utah