Refugees

Refugees

He walks with me
in the meadows of my mind
through patterns and rhyme
and meters I'd long forgot
until he pointed
at them lying in leaves
of dappled brown.

He taught me how to listen
for the sound of light
on water seen only in
peripheral and gone
if I turn
my face to gaze

to understand the need
for touch, how time
slows down
when the fog comes in
and sound is muffled in a
cool, moist cloud

how loudly silence rings
in trees hissing in the wind
and remembering the
joy of standing underneath
the mossy oak

Strong, like those limbs
that cupped us, children,
unaware that wind
can crush us or caress
and how to know the difference.
Find shelter from the storm.

The Rookery

The Rookery

A cold wind descends.
Moonlight trembles
on the water,
reflecting my
regrets.

The dog like a stone
in darkness sits,
melding into trees
no breeze can dare
betray.

Leaves crackle softly
under feet, my neat
plans scatter
to the sound.

We wait.

Soon, like phantoms
they descend, ballerina
light one moonlit
night, haunting
Egret Lake
at the Bullfrogs' Ball

The sound of pterodactyls
grocking, black legs walking
white wings, sharp beaks
in bleakest fall,
all is egret white.

On its silent perch
one lone blue heron
sits a silent sentinel
a messenger from Hell
Old Grim, himself
to tell us all a story
of the untold ages,
of how the feathers and
their fathers from
the spent volcano
rose again.

Listen closely to the
sound of feathers on
the air, watch the landings,
see the sights
at the Bullfrogs' Ball.

Every evening you can
find them, rattling sabers
telling tales, phantoms
riding on the wind
at the Bullfrongs' Ball.