Sunday, August 16, 2009


"There is a number hidden in every act of life...numbers screaming to tell us something." - Paul from 21 Grams

If it were only a matter of numbers -
five hundred and seventy seven
minus one hundred and fifty, leaving
four hundred with a little margin for error -
would that be enough to stave off
that one deva who divines calamity,
calls it a sacred door?
Intrepidly blue as the Arabian Sea,
my worries drift on crimson petals,
each envious of the nautilus chambers,
beautiful raft of Fibonacci numbers -
one, two three, five, eight,
thirteen, twenty one.
But still the world cracks open,
flooding us in a feast of breezes
filled with squirrel chatter,
who don’t care if we’re counting.

If it were only a matter of numbers
would it be enough to divide a year into
seasons, days, and hours, littering walls
and tables with the couriers of
our imperious fourth dimension?
The mist that curls my book's cover
is an ample almanac. And even
if our whirl-a-gig minds press for
meticulous rhythms, there rests
within the pulse of a peewee call
that perfect balance of time and place.
You'll recognize it in twilight
when, passed along a string of song,
each countless moment finds its mate;
much like toddlers lined up along the yellow curb –
one piece of day delivered to the next,
welcomed with the opening of a chrome handled door.

Saturday, August 1, 2009


Last August as barometers fell
and skies spun their pewter webs,
we dreamed of rain.  Watching
thirsty Sourwoods  blush

Before the light shifted,
we presses that buxom summer
to fill our shelves with bottles
stacked high in bread and butter pickles,

spicy salsa and home brew.  Those
dog days courted fat winds out of
Alabama, teased us to seventh heaven
and hid downpours in fox grapes

and persimmons.  That year we looked up,
sought safe haven in a farmer's almanac,
and days sailed toward summer's end
within the graceful orbit of Earth.

We prayed like refugees
for any clever idea to reunite
land and sky.  Patience sweltered
in us between line dried sheets.

We believed sun-dogs were omens;
that we could pull them apart
like wishbones and find water.
Instead our oracles hid in flowers.

still tucked up in the dry soil
among the warts of a mother bulb.
Come April, they swelled open
right on time - each lusciously wet

and brilliantly blue. Yellow anthers
shivered Jove offerings
to the bees' knees.  Now August,
we wake to cool mornings

pregnant with thunderheads 
that burst like ripe plums most afternoons.
Our gardens yield a casual bounty;
bullfrogs practice swallowing the pond.

We wish Eden weren't so capricious,
but our wild hearts know better.
We are the fickle ones, and
Paradise meets us here.

-revised 11/17/2013