Discovering Beauty in Everyday Life

What happens when love takes the time to strengthen, what happens if it passes, and the day tomorrow leaves behind is chilled and withed, holding us without a chance, at the drop off point where death takes over, how can we hold the weary fort, when battle scars the very heart of the earth. How can we love without knowing, how can we hold on without a knotted center keeping us from flying off, how can I watch the day die and still live to see the morning sneaking back to life against the sallow sky? I did, and then I turned around and just walked out of the picture. What could I do? I didn't know how to talk it over. Magnolia Buds in December, Central Park

Does the whistle still blow along the railroad tracks? Does the steam still whoosh around those iron wheels? Drawn to the rails like an iron filing, I yearned for a molecular rearrangement, a stretched out yesterday, I didn’t know the ache of my itinerary. Where is the frosted, yellow wheat? Where is the red sunset against that winter tree? Where is the empty creek bed? Where is the meaning of magenta? The Station’s empty now, the crowds sucked into evening, Craving the new neon, built with energy saving bulbs. An undeciphered answer hiding in the wires. Can we hear the songs of those without another spring, Slipping into their new life, plunging into colors, Bursting with new dimensions?

My black cat named Shelter Came into my palm on a cold winter evening Not unlike this very day. A little thing, born on the streets and starving. An old German shepherd seemed to want a bite, So home I went with Shelter. That's just the way it happened. I think it's in the nature of things Hydrangeas with Winter Colors in the Conserevancy Gardens

One more time I think I’ll make believe I love you, One more time I’ll settle in among these mottled days. I have a friend who doesn’t like her husband and in this day and age she stays. I did ask why, I couldn’t help it. That’s it, she said. This day, this age -- I’m too old to plant a new beginning. Not me, though. I’m not here to stay I’m off within a day or so. Though I'll rest my head against your shoulder one more time before I go.

There’s a dry and powdery snow here, The trees on the mountains are sifted with it. Wintry sun reflects on the pale chamisa, Chamisa, sticky when a person gets too close. I packed a suitcase full of past promises I thought I couldn't do without, But I lost it through an inattentive baggage handler. What happened to those worn and threaded schemes? Where are the lamps that lit those epic trails, Casting away a conquest here a pipe-dream there? What happened to ‘I cannot live without you’? Change came stumbling down the road, trampling and singing.