he tends his dreams
’til the break of dawn . . .
songbirds
gathering in the field
signal it’s time to harvest
Here, beneath the clouds, a boy feels the first drops of sky dripping from the leaves. Soon he’s a walking sponge, the trail oozing around his soles. A humming patter lulls the forest to sleep. He pauses at the top of a rise, the valley below frozen in time like an Ansel Adams photograph.
damp moss
blankets a rotting log . . .
time perfumes the air
with the sweet scent of death
feeding life
He takes the long way home. But when he gets there, he just keeps walking—walking into the sunset.
many paths traveled . . .
the pilgrim
follows a dove
as if it could carry
a mountain
Fifty years later, on another rainy day, he pulls out a weathered memory, and like a muddy shoe, begins to clean it off. He feels drenched cotton clinging to his skin, sees a shaft of sunlight poking through the clouds. He hears a chipmunk chirp. A doe and fawn bound across the trail. Then out comes the rainbow that told him to move on.
repurposing
toybox relics—
viewing the moon
through his kaleidoscope
he finds a field of stars
First published in Ribbons Volume 19, Number 1 – Spring/Summer 2023
