2015

on cool air, pumpkins are hauled from the fields
stalks, dried and withered, rustle in the breeze
yellow spreads through the treetops of the tallest oaks
i build an evening fire when wind-chill becomes a factor
under crisp skies, pink rivulets stretch from the sunset

since adulthood, i know what happens next
the familiar routine becomes a psychological battle
the rush of familiar faces say hello but refuse to delve deeper
possibly, there are dangerous ideas hiding behind countenance
i smell chlorine seeping from under the correctional center door

once throwing a football in dead leaves, a childhood flashes by
reality is an old man, memories draining—unable to stem the flow
wishing i had written down observations of an earlier time

creating pictures is something i should have done a long time ago
training the eye/hand with a yearning to print pictures in black ink
and a want to render body parts coming out of objects

the ocean temperature steadily drops and the beaches are abandon
stuck in time for two million years, the sturgeon is found dead
it’s spiny body, washed-up on dawn’s gray shore
extending further than my prehistoric grasp
the walk has taken me outside the minutia of the day
in puzzled fascination—to the realization of a grand picture

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