moonrise over central park, stark branches reaching into the almost- dark sky: forks of night against one night in december, the path light from the glow of the lamps: sight of feet on silent stone. muffled sound of traffic from the street: alone, just us to walk across the park at dusk.  

1.   The sun set over the bay as the violins worked themselves into a feverish melody fire on fire bow on strings sun over water fire igniting fire music the orange-rose sun the almost silent tap-tap of water melting into sand and reed-filled marshes the gentle ripples covered with countless lines of pink orange yellow all pale and moving and blending and perfect. I thought of you immediately (I always do).   2. What has happened to the simplicity of life, of living? A string of motorcycles blasts down a palm-lined, dusk-filled street previously quiet in the presence of evening. Just across...

I do not want to let this month slip through my fingers with its strong and fragile beauty   with its many faces of light and color both night and day   month when the moon sings of yellow leaves and the evening shouts that spring is not so far away when the stars breathe more deeply, anticipating winter’s refreshment   month when the sun and trees create a golden temple as they reflect each other during the day   this month of almost-over but not-yet-here month of time’s-still-left of decision gateway to death or birth   what will the next season hold?  ...

Each leaf matures to its unique culmination of color and breaks from the branch like one memory after another piling around the tall, thin trunks   leaving their beauty scattered along the trail   behind us    

good morning to the gloves with the pom-poms that I haven’t seen since last winter good morning to the puffs of frosty breath under the sparkling stars during my early moonlit walk   good morning to the dance of glittering light that begins as the sun rises   awaken: cup of strong Irish tea awaken: birds with pure voices awaken: summer has passed   good morning to the cold sun good morning to the overgrown and uneven blades of grass, green swords sheathed with the first frost   this is not a day made for the dim office this is not a day to sit in the dentist’s chair not...