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 March 20, 2015

The wind has been blowing.  I don’t need to see the waving trees to know.  The light underneath the blinds has a yellow quality from the dust in the air.   I’m glad I don’t have to go outdoors.  I’m not in the mood to be buffeted.

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.

Small Stone for January 17, 2012

There is a satisfying symmetry to trees.  Roots branching and burrowing into the ground, limbs branching and burrowing up into the sky, with a trunk between the two, holding the world together.

Small Stone for October 14, 2011

Midnight cool sieves slowly through the screen door and pools upon the kitchen floor.  A six-legged soul trills a single lovelorn note into the darkness as the wind-surf ebbs and flows across the treeshore.

Small Stone for July 15, 2011

Klieg lit by the full moon,  the mocking bird’s child takes a bough in the ornamental pear tree and does impersonations:  A starling, a blue jay, a grackle, a cardinal, a robin, a car alarm.