Small Stone for 18 January, 2019

The winter sky is azure glazed,
A bowl wiped clean of cloud smudge by the wind.
It would ping like porcelain.

See the wild geese fly.
They pass in straggling flotillas,
Outward bound to far away and someplace else.
Sleek, like white-hulled racing shells they glide,
Long prows black and needle thin,
Wings like oar blades
Sculling through the liquid air.
Hear them cry the stroke.

One day,
I will not stay behind and watch them
Sail away without me,
Off across the watercolor wash of winter sky
Bound for far away and someplace else.
One day, I will follow after.
But not yet.
Not yet.

Small Stone for 3 November, 2018

High Summer Haiku
Sun-fired blue porcelain sky,
hissing of the grass, as the wind goes chuffing past

Small Stone for 3 February, 2018

Today Aram Khachaturian’s Masquerade Waltz has ear-wormed its insinuating coils into my head and refuses to worm out, and my mind is a swirling mass of blue and purple ballgowns hoar-frosted with diamonds that glitter in the candlelight.

Small Stone for 22 November, 2017

The cobalt blue glass from which I drink the sweet golden cold of apple juice, thirst quenching for both eye and tongue.

Small Stone For 22 November, 2017.

I went outside this morning, stepped off the porch and looked up, and the gold and oxblood red of the leaves on the trees next door, their colors richer than Croesus against the cold-crisped blue of sky, leaned down and gently kissed my eyes.  I let the kiss linger.

Small Stone for 29 November, 2016

The leaves on the oak tree next door are a pile of crumpled russet velvet that shimmers in the morning sun as the wind brushes its fingers back and forth across the nap.

Small Stone for September 9, 2014

The full moon is a silver dollar from two centuries ago tossed onto the dark blue velvet counterpane of night, so finger-worn one cannot call it heads or tails.  Its pale orb plays peekaboo through the tree branches as I drive down the night-lit streets.

First Small Stone of the New Year, 2012

There’s magic in rainbows.  It’s like the sky has had a good cry, feels all better now, and is smiling again.  Seeing it makes you smile, too,  the colors falling on your eye like a child’s delighted laugh.  Sympathetic magic of the very best kind.

Small Stone for November 28, 2011

Under a dripping sky,  a fidget of sparrows forages through the grass beside the wet elephant sidewalk.

Small Stone for October 3, 2011

Drinking in the video of a speckled seal bobbing in the swell off the coast of Wales.  The sea is Bacardi bottle green and as lucid as the seal’s eyes watching me back.