Random Poems


A spring moon hangs in the evening sky
a farmer burning brush
in the field
keeps an ancient ceremony he does not name.
There is ritual in writing
in the placement of symbols on paper,
and in the slow movement
of my hands over your chest
the way a stream comes to know
the stones it has flowed
over for years.

The Tide

will follow

is stronger
than fear.

A wave
of despair
to the shore.

The Crow
for Jeff Schwaner

Often flapping
the crow is unflappable,
in league with shadow
and beckoned by sun,
caught in the vortex
of light and dark.
The crow may well
be the ballast
of the universe.