In the Honeysuckle Swamp

In the honeysuckle swamp

where paths roam like brambles

getting lost is the point

Written in Runes

To the woods
he wandered
searching for secrets
in a cool spring rain
for the forest
in the springtime
is a book
written in runes

The Phoenix and Me

The turkey vulture circled above me

in the evening sky

black on a darkening blue

He soared in the shadow of the hills

as the sun set ever lower
and the Gray assumed strength

And then
the buzzard slowly

circled higher until
in his calm grace-full arc
he rose past the shade
from the trees
into the light of
the deep gold setting sun

and then

the lowly vulture exploded

into bright bronze and red

a phoenix afire

beautiful beyond words

And yet,

the bird had not changed

still, a turkey vulture

still, a carrion feeder

still the same loathesome

bird of death

The buzzard was the same

but I had changed

All the Moss Creek

 All the moss creek

phlox stone

wonder-making

black oak

roaming through 

the new woods

looking for a

dew-soaked

congregation

conjuration

deeply wild

flirtation

with the Lady

of the Stream

Yes, yes

with that Lady 

hidden smartly

deep within the Stream

Slumber

I noticed the first raindrop

on that last Saturday of winter

because it landed on my nose

The second hit me square

in the eye as I tilted my head back

in casual curiosity

The third, fourth and fifth fell

in a drumbeat on the hollow log 

at my feet

these were generous

healthy raindrops

that made certain promises

that were full of gravity

and humor

that knew what they knew

and didn't suffer questions

or fools

lightly

After that, I lost count

and listened to the rhythm

rather than reckon with numbers

I slumbered in that final rain

Sanctuary

The forest is

in theory and in practice

a holy sanctuary for me

and for the cardinal 

shining in his cave

and for father robin 

eating a worm

and for the first turtle 

welcoming Spring

and for the beech tree

mourning Winter

and for the warming stream

glowing like a stained glass window

The forest is our palace of worship

where we bow in contemplation

and sing rollicking, bawdy hymns of praise

and leave our offerings at the mossy altars

of earth and sky

The Quick and the Dead

With winter winding away

With the last of the beech leaves

still clinging to their trees

like hopeful ghosts

With a few golden sunsets

still reaching the forest floor

as a gentle reminder

May we rejoice in the 

Before Spring

time

Let us celebrate the 

Not Yet Born

and the 

Already Past

with equal joy

and a sacred determination

to honor the

quick and the dead

who walk these paths with us

ahead and behind and beside