Small Stone for 25 June 2020

“The wild-haired corn” — that marvelous image from the poem by Mary Oliver is going to rattle around in my brain all afternoon. The wild-haired corn, that plays the telephone game — whispers from ear to ear in the breeze. This is why we need poets. We were so lucky to have had her while we did.

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 5 May, 2017

In the flat lands where the wind plays for keeps, and what it takes is gone, gone, gone.  Where it thrums through the utility wires and leaves a film of dust over everything, including the sky.   Where the wind has urgent and important things to do someplace else.  Where the wind is as bored and restless as a rambunctious four-year-old who’s been cooped up inside all day.  Where vast herds of wind take days to pass through.  Where it blows with a fierce, relentless current like a river rushing through a gorge.

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 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 Stones for September 10, 2011

The bell-like descending arpeggio the glass sings as I drop ice cubes into the tea one at a time.

The clouds are debating whether or not to rain.  There is a wide difference of opinion.

A white plastic grocery bag has jumped the fence and wanders restlessly around the yard.

Small Stone for June 28, 2011

The night wind is hot and sweaty, and has rain on its breath.

Small Stone for June 28, 2011

The street lamps draw cones of light with white chalk on the black background of the night, roughing in the streets beneath with long strokes of wet-elephant grey.  At the intersection, the traffic lights call their pre-recorded square dance, but there are no more dancers, just the feckless wind that kicks an empty styrofoam cup out of its way, and staggers off into the darkness.