Respite

There at oceanside
Tall glass reflects
Halcyon wave crests
At sunset.
I am home.

Night Glory

We Used To Believe...

Ocean Dreams

Moonstone, reflecting
sea pictures in
lantern light.
Reflecting on sea pictures
not meant to be.

I Did It For The Money

Touching The Sun

Song To The Moon

I see the moon,
The moon sees me
God bless the moon,
And God bless me.

-A nursery rhyme

Bridge Over The Salt

The Visit

He came to me in a dream last night, much unexpected, looking just as he had twenty years ago, that same grin, that same tilt of his head. I was in a crowd, moving toward baggage claim, and suddenly, there he was, walking toward me. I looked into his eyes, still startled to see him after such a long time. "Wellll, hello there," he said in that familiar voice with its hint of southern syrup. I remembered the last thing he had said to me before he left was that our story was not over. I had believed him, counted on him, and waited until I finally had to let him go. Now I ran to him, embraced him tightly, telling him how much I had missed him, how much I still loved him, and that not a day had gone by that I had not longed for him. He did not say, as he always had before, that our story wasn't over. He only said it's so good to see you, but people are waiting. I'll call soon.
As I stood there in that dream watching him go, I knew he would not call. In reality, we are now old. Too much time has passed, and there isn't much story left to live or tell. When I awoke, I was again alone with the silence and my longing, but truly joyful that I had seen him and held him again, if only for a moment and if only in my dream.

What a Tale Our Lives Could Tell...

Always Watching

Another Time, Another Place

Letting Go--Step One

You'll Remember Me

He Was The One

Oh, The Comfort of Friends

The three of us, against the world.

Roots and Wings

Ride Away

The World Waited and Waited...

Rebutia Redux

The second set of blooms this season from my tiny Rebutia.

I Keep Telling Myself...

Sing A Few Sad Songs

ODE TO SOME YELLOW FLOWERS

ODE TO SOME YELLOW FLOWERS

Rolling its blues against another blue,
the sea, and against the sky
some yellow flowers.

October is on its way.

And although
the sea may well be important, with its unfolding
myths, its purpose and its risings,
when the gold of a single
yellow plant
explodes
in the sand
are bound
to the soil.
They flee the wide sea and its heavings.

We are dust and to dust return.
In the end we’re
neither air, nor fire, nor water,
just
dirt,
neither more nor less, just dirt,
and maybe
some yellow flowers.

PABLO NERUDA

Desert Celebration

The Old Days

They’re gone now, the old days,
And they will never return,
Like water down the river
And wind through the fern.

Everything comes back sometime,
Except ourselves alone,
And the times that were happy
And the friends that we’ve known.

So the days go onward
And the glory fails,
There’s nothing much left now
Except my tales,

Just what I remember,
I and the wind,
Stronger now, and sharper,
Since the woods are thinned.

~Louis Morgan

Who Loves The Rain

Who loves the rain
And loves his home,
And looks on life with quiet eyes,
Him will I follow through the storm;
And at his hearth-fire keep me warm;
Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul surprise,
Who loves the rain,
And loves his home,
And looks on life with quiet eyes.

~Frances Shaw

Ain't That Somethin'

On Wednesday of this week, at two minutes and three seconds after 1:00 in the morning, the time and date will be 01:02:03 04/05/06.

That won't ever happen again.

One Hundred and Twenty-two Days

Cold gray day, holding no promise of rain.
Pale brown soil stirs as I walk, dusty leaves
Crunch under my feet. I pull my jacket closer.
Desert trees in late winter, stark and dark-barked
Against the milky sky.
So many dry days now, a record, leaving everything thirsty
waiting for rain that doesn't come.
Around the next bend, cacti blooms fuchsia, some red;
another yellow, another orange. They need no water.
This year there will be no wildflowers.

An Old Dreamer

Old age brings shallow dreams,
just under the surface of wakefulness.
Not quite reality, but neither
the vivid, passionate, shuddering
dreams of youth.
Sometimes I lie there in that
not quite wakeful state,
aware of aches and itches,
unable to move from tiredness
and the monotony of mild
and colorless dreams.
I long for even the
terror of a nightmare
to warm my body and blood
once again.
~Aiyana