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Here are a few poems written over the last couple years. 

(Inspired by I Love You the Purplest, by Barbara Joose)

Heidi, I love you the pale greenest

the color of spring touching the forest at the tips of the branches

the color of your eyes when we first met among the coeds, that dormitory food, the spring of the bicentennial year, so long ago and so many memories away

I love you the color of centipede grass, of honeysuckle vines, of new cana lily leaves uncurling

I love you the cool color of jade, of the praying mantis, of shamrocks, of moss in forest crevices

I love you the green of an anole when it’s mellow, of a green tree frog in a curled banana leaf

Our first hug in the morning and the last whisper of love at night

Heidi, I love you the pale greenest

How is Your Heart?

A friend of mine asked me—"How is your heart?"

It caught me off guard

Hardly knew where to start

There's laughter and springtime

And loved ones and art

But children are hiding 

From bombs they call "smart"

There's flirting and romance

And families torn apart

There's dancing and loving

And death tolls on charts

A friend of mine asked me—"How is your heart?"

It caught me off guard

Hardly knew where to start

The River

(Maybe not a poem. Just musings.)

He looked out over the space that had become so sacred—those trees, now showering leaves of amber, ochre, crimson, the cabin itself, rustic, smelling of earth, and wood and simplicity. Most especially the river. Would he ever return? Would he walk the muddy bank, smell the freshness, bathe his face in the foggy mist, feel the beloved rocks beneath his feet? 

He was already years older than his own father at his passing. Would the opportunity present itself? Travel, relationships, health… life. There were many obstacles between this encounter with the river and future visits.

He gazed one final time at the mist rising from this water rushing ever onward to the sea. He looked through the sun-drenched leaves, smelled the funky still waters cut off from the flow by recent drought, felt a kinship with the hickory, walnut, and oak. There was the distant aroma of skunk, of manure from the horse pasture. He watched whirligigs and water striders in the small eddies behind the rocks, and a trout hiding furtively under a ledge waiting for the inevitable shiner. 

Would he live to stand in this space, to feel the river’s breath once again?

Tears cooled his cheeks as he climbed the bluff and walked into his tomorrows.