He brings us wood with his New England manner

Gently covers my tent before the rain

Lives in a beard and RV

with his Navajo woman.

What geographic magnetism draws people to places

and man to woman?

The Stars?

The Dust on hiking boots?

Only the wind to make a sound?

She is brown and still weaves the ancestral baskets of yucca fiber

Dyes heavy fabric into the pastels of the rim

Pink, tan, pale blue, muted reds

He watches

Smiles under his white beard

Smokes his peace pipe in contentment.

This scene, these rocks, this silence is all he needs.


Swirled Silver Cedar

June 28, 2019

Bare trunks swirl in waves

of winding silver patterns

like layers in the canyon

old as time

twisted and bent into artistic shapes

smooth and weathered like my old hand

The Fire Woman bent over the desert, picking up bristlecone pine needles, carefully sifting the sand.

The Writer Woman bent over her art, painting pictures with words.

The Forerunner dreamed of the race, her legs pedaling air.

They bonded over the miles and logs, smoke in their hair, embers and stars

Meteors and wind silenced their voices

the quiet was comfort

They dreamed of Condors, constellations, celestial beings

The road was still

A fox crossed the highway

eyes shined and a flute played

Stories began to take shape

While Jupiter shined.




The Legend People

June 26, 2019

Like church spires

they stand holy

rust and pink totems

kissing the stars

Around them

all that does not matter

has washed away

they are concentrated



The trickster



and skirts away in the shadows

the statues remain frozen in time

all that is relevant


that which cannot roam

The Garden Door

June 12, 2019

The portal tempts with wild roses

the violet blue of hydrangeas

cherry blossoms


and lore

Stories whisper

tales of yesterday

when what she seeks is tomorrow

Can she open the Garden Gate?


Not alone

It will take friends and foes

Forces beyond her control

shoulders determined

will and guts

Her fingers will split open

and nails will  drive away haints

Echoes and wind will escape

and breath emerge

in wisps of green



song light

She is a song

Puttering around in bare feet

Summer abounds here

Long swims in the lake

hair smooth and trailing

trellises and gazebos hold picnics

tea parties

Garden parties with hats and gloves

She can taste the scones and clotted cream

select fine teas from a fancy box

smell lavender

Birds chirp and hop like bunnies

or the lamb on Dingle

Straight up defying gravity

She cooks now

Ponders new recipes in an apron her Grandmother made

She inherits the engraved sewing box with silver and pearl scissors

bobbins and myriads of thread

the foreign coins tucked in a corner

waiting to be displayed under the sunroom glass

for children’s wide eyes of a large and wonder-filled world

How did Nana know she’d be the same

the wanderlust?

The peasant blouses

Long silk gloves

and opera glasses

for tenors and birds

They took long slow walks

identifying each plant and flower

Nana complimented her knowledge

and she felt so proud

Maybe she should move to Florida

where the Orange blossoms make one drunk

before Disneyworld

Before time.




La Cigale

June 11, 2019

Summer nights

Pillows in open windows

Attic fans whir

The Mistrals stir

But not even their wind

can silence La Cigale

We lavish under an apricot tree

Bread, wine, cheese

We pick lemon for the pie

and indulge in plum cake

Fish jump in the sea

The Provence blue where sky and water greet

La Cigale practices

Tunes up

Sharpens wings

Soon the vibrations will eclipse conversation

We will pantomime signals

Use hands like lips

Back in Georgia

Tomatoes ripen a fiery red

of acidic juice and tiny seeds

She understands then, their link

La Cigale

The Cicada



Creation Is Not a Tense

June 10, 2019

She roams the heavens

collects dust like a bee

dances in circles

hoots and groans

a galaxy is born

A twig snaps

the reverb vibrates, hums

Atoms split

DNA discovers she is powerful


the twirling dervish of the universe




One Maple Seed

June 9, 2019

One maple seed tells her she can do it.

It’s in her DNA.

Circles of growth and hardwood, fiery leaves and golden.

She can feel the trunk, strong, carrying nutrients to feed her lungs.

She sighs, pulls out her pen, and obeys.

Art is like that.

Later she will regret.


Hawk photo

The dusky orange light covers her skin as she bathes.

The water is icy, she thinks of Monet.

She knows this day will be different so she waits.

Around noon, the crow caws

and the sparrows flee

Its just the hawk and me

I lift my arm in sacrifice

The shoulder strong yet curves with age

‘”I’ve waited all my life for you!”

She cries as the predator digs talons deep into veins

She bleeds profusely



Then laughs


Before skybreak
while the sidewalk solar lights
are still on
she walks in white slippers
among giant blue hydrangeas
past the drunken lure of gardenias
to her car

Whispering sonnets

She’d like to write one
but it isn’t her forte
She’s not sure this morning
of her forte

Except to detect rain

The orange light grows stranger
boxwood branches bend
Loblolly pines sway

Droplets the size of pennies
fall on her shoulder
deafening crashes
drum in the foreground

The world is coming awake

Meanwhile, back in her room
two fans twirl
work in opposition
create cross-currents
of moving wind
like some unruly tunnel

She can’t tell
if it’s rain or wind
until the lights blink
the house shakes
and stuns the shutters

Definitely rain
a washout

Red clay
will be exposed once more
the Acworth lake
will swim with it

She had planned loosely
to go to the lake today
dip her toes in the mud
as she launched the one-woman kayak

But now, the thunder roars
like some lost Lion King
on the Last Mountain standing