The wind blows

The wind blew and blows still,
showering the field with golden leaves,
moaning like a lost train in the unlit dark.

Stove hums in flame tongue,
incensed with wood smoke,
where cats curl.

We talk in soft voices,
unwilling to disturb the humming, flame-tongued air
or the music of the stars.

Eggshell blue

 

1200px-August_2010_CME_SDO_Multi-Wavelength

 

blue as the shell of a bird’s egg

curved smoother than pebbles

in a riverbed

 

untroubled by clouds

watersmoke

redolent of ocean spray

 

sky arcs

an eggbubble

protective casing

 

stretches above about behind

and beyond is the black

the deep and the dark

 

where cats’ eyes of stars

stare blandly at the bird’s egg blue shell

silent as an empty nest.

Another element

1024px-The_Sun

Many fingered like the sea

a heaving mass beneath the coping of the sky

sopping up the clarity with spongy paws

 

it wrings sweat from the veiled air

puddled in vague yellow unclear green

dripping dry and crisp beneath the tread

 

this heat slows the workings of the world

like syrup in the wheels and cogs

silencing even the irritable crows.

These days

 

It should be enough the sun

the languid whistling of the birds

heat rising from baked earth and green shimmer

 

enough to rise with the heat

on birdwings lifting languid and serene in the sun

from green earth

 

they should be green with birdsong

these hot days dusty

with harvest motes floating golden birdwings

 

there should be joy after rain shafts

slanting steely cold

from lowering skies

 

when we listened to the rattle of hail

the splash of torrents

and a wind raging from the east

 

it should be enough the sun

the unconscious beauty of the warbler’s song

the ripple of heat breeze and leaf hiss

 

but these days it is not enough

to lift the heavy wings

the flutter leaden with rain

and all the little sorrows

sing soft and low.