Blood Red Moon

If I had a dream

of the blood, red moon shining

I would die happy

Bad Dreaming

Tossing and turning
in blankets and bad dreaming
I plod through the night
without the usual joy
I find in the darkness
of God's time.

Dreary and stealing from the day
like a kleptomaniac
who can't get enough of taking
anything that freezes the fear
into so much alone.

The lack of desire
is as much neuropathy of the heart,
so much misfired love
in the wrong direction,
as it is a body turning off the lights
and going to bed without a glance
at the possibility
of warmth.

I hum a little lullaby to myself
and to all the angels who know me
from my clear and certain voice.

Blind

If love is blind
then that explains
the ways I have stumbled
and fallen hard
into the ditches
of despair
so many times.

The reminders of boundaries crossed
and controlled daydreams
that prescribed mind numbing
 Yes, Dear.
and No, Sir.

I know what it is to meander
not quite lost
not quite found
into the nature of losses.

If love is blind,
I am not ready
to walk ahead
without fear
of falling
down
again.

After Epiphany

Epiphany gone.
The tree was all that was left.
Silence rings lonely.

On Rain in January in Vermont

The January rain in Vermont
is a stranger tapping on my roof
like a dream of spring
only colder.

The snow that should have whispered
and soothed the earth with her quiet voice
went strolling with a lover
somewhere north of here.

I miss her reflection in the mirror
and the geometric glory
that once embraced our backyard
from November until April.

The warmth of the ways we have stolen power
from the depths of this planet in pursuit of a devil's dream
have me unable to speak

I am so ashamed of what comfort we have lost
and what my children will never know
of the ease we have given away
to fools who would not bend
to marvel at the inconvenience
of another winter storm.

Night Moves

The mysterious twitch of an aching shoulder
blossoms as the night, musty with flannel
and the cocoon of winter struggles
against the layers, unravels and tightens
around the compass that can't find the way
to making sense of the ocean of tasks
that come washing in each day.

Citrus and verdant light
might protect us from the scurvy
or old woman's gout; age defies our wishes
with the promise of pain
and evasive sleep.

Modern witches slather salves, inhale lineaments
and essential oils, administer needles,
prepared tinctures,
and sling capsules full of healing
as defenses against darkness
of the heart and wandering mind.

Going First

Falling like milk steaming from a warm bucket in the barn
this frost is pulling us all to the windows.

We crave the white
after the oddity of brown Christmas
and rain on New Year's Eve,

as if we have never seen the sparkle,
drastic and kissing the dry grasses
with light.

A murder of crows
huddle in the pines
cawing their stark reminder,
caressing this is the last day
with strong music
for someone
who least expects
to go first.

For Silvie

The cat prowls slowly
A modern tiger so sleek
Alive like silk threads.