Spring Murder

March 18, 2009

Lets make mud
and pretend it was us who killed winter.
Blood is on our hands
but it isn’t our blood. 
Cold air is on the wind
but we don’t shiver,
at least
not while we’re together.


The Seasons

October 14, 2008

there she was
green and young,
her hair was growing
her limbs were stiff
she woke early each morning
in the cool arms of fog 

there she was
and she was mine
heat brought her fully to bear
her beauty was indubitable;
she grew limber
and danced in the breeze
as the sun consumed the day 
and tickled the leaves.

there she was
distant and deteriorating  
her bright colors, deep flames, 
she was leaving
before the first frost
she was growing cold
she was already lost

there she was
dressed in white
cold and quiet
somber and hard.
far from the green in which she started
or the heat in which she grew,
her colors have faded
but she was the best I ever knew.


Changing Leaves

October 6, 2008

people gather from miles distance
to watch beautiful things die, 
i’ll admit — 
the hills do possess a certain elegance
as the leaves change
from their sunlight suffocation,
but they are so much more beautiful
when they are green and lush,
when they live and wave with youthful
spring,  when they course and shade
and turn the raindrops away.


And Thus Was Closed the Door

October 5, 2008

autumn’s push into darker days
and chilly weather,
September October November.
The moon casts shadows
the leaves change to crunching colors
littering the sidewalks and avenues,
And thus was closed the door
it was open for a while
’til silence found us where we hid
and all of the onlookers looked in
bidding us farewell
for they knew we were dead.
as the wind now blows the branches
bare and stark
clearing off their colors
and ripping them apart
autumn has never been kind. 
and winter is bitter and blind.
i never imagined we’d have nothing to say
we are not seasons, even though we change.
although you are cold, I cant bear call you winter.
but you are definitely not, anything like summer.


The Stony Shore

September 21, 2008

i visit the stony shore
where the daisies are
like little crowned kings
standing in the mud
left soft and rank
by summer floods; 
not unlike they
i’m watching the seasons sway:
summer’s gone pink
and headed west
with autumn on its heels,
soon the river will be frozen
and their kingdom made of ice,
but the lords of the shore
show little concern,
possessing patience i have yet to learn.