four poems

autumn cold,
I am not as old
as I sometimes feel


in mythic winter,
pink and blue aster bloom
from desert of silence


work is a blessing --
work is all of my messy moments
from past lives
bearing fruit
in present joy


thoughts weave
watery webs,
I fear to pass through,
not wanting to get wet

kasls in the sandh

it's nice to build castles in the sand,

yet the Earth shifts

by frenetic hand, does it not?

the sand, by science,

constantly undermined



we want what we wish,

may, at times, to degrees, accomplish it

but no amount of weeping,

wheedling or wondering why

will bring to fruition “a dream

that wants to die”.



with handkerchief in hand

I walk away from my castles,

let the sea and the wind

and the Earth do its work,

I head for home

to face the grieving

that will clear a space

for the fulfillment

all my striving could not attain.