Ozoro Lake

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby. 

~ Langston Hughes


This Old Tree

This old tree
Has been standing longer than me.
It died many years ago.
A large healthy limb in the pine beside it is all that keeps gravity from pulling it to the earth to depcompose. 
I have been watching and waiting
For years now.
Each time I walk near it I look at it and wonder
When it will fall.
I wonder if I will notice it when it is no longer there..
I wonder where it will fall.
And, what it will look like when it does..
And what it will sound like..
It isn't much to look at.
Even the birds stay away from it.
Most humans would never notice it.
It is almost invisible in its standing decay..
I could easily knock it down.
It wouldn't take very much.
But I don't.
I wait.

Cauliflower mushroom

The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.

~ WB Yeats


Home Is
A spider web
In the light of the sun
Rising in the east.
It is the sit of the wren,
The pecking of the chickens
And the sweetness
Of my lovers kiss
Upon my neck
His breath and smell forcing me
To close my eyes
And savor the moment.

Home is the roar of the highway
As people travel
And south
Even on a perfect
Sunday morning.
It is a breath held
And released
For the stillness the cool breeze
Brings to the moment.
It is the glistening drop of water
Slowly gathering
And enough weight
To drop
To the earth
In a thundering unexpected
Silent splash.

Home is the chatter of the squirrels
Momentarily upset
By the hawk
Who hunts them
And miraculously appears
Seemingly out of no where
Or the raccoon
Who instinctually year after year
Returns to the faithful persimmon
Savor in their short season.
It is the pine warbler trill,
The hermit thrush song,
The nuthatch call,
And the seasonal
Eastern phoebe song.

Home is here.


During these days

The dog days

Of humidity,

Of August,

Of Summer

I stand outside and hear the


Occasionally the cicadas still sing

But thick air


Everything but the


Summers close

Autumns wake

Leaves yellow and scorch

Under the heat of the summer sun.

It takes effort to breathe.

It is no wonder

The birds

the leave the singing

To the