The Sword of Damocles

time —

the sword of Damocles

with the inscription

“produce or die” 

etched on the silver blade

hangs by a frayed thread

over my head

time has a face

numbers for eyes and

hands pointing to what is

out of what was

what will I be doing

when the line snaps

and it’s too late 

to recapitulate loss or gain

time owns the dice

the same dots 

don’t come up twice

and a clue to what you seek

can’t be found when

the cubes spin around on

a chipped corner 

we have what was given

to use as we choose

win or lose

nothing more or less

than what remains 

after the table is closed

and the transient moment 

contains all it can hold

If This Is The Last Song

because this may be

the last time

I sing this song

sincerely and reverently

in this place

that knows my voice

and follows my stride

through braided seasons

seemingly without end

I sing

as the cardinal

opens the day

radiant in golden hue

I sing for you

as the song dances on air

filling the intervals between

sound and silence

I sing 

because this time 

shall be unlike any other

echoing in the place

memory reserves as its own

Wind

wind…

from where have you come

where do you go

what do you carry

whom do you know

circling round corner

nestling in crevice and seam

scattering seeds over meadow

gathering fragrance from blossom and bloom

swaying beneath your stride

ever restless and impatient

running full circle wide

pausing to gather your wits

before driving ever on

When You Leave

when you leave

I will smile

as you turn

away and go

while these words

sketch the outline

of where you were

Le Sacre

time held me

full fresh lush

and green in

golden vibrant spring

songs rang to

a silent pulse

throbbing beneath my feet

from a presence

sensed unseen

a heady fragrance

rides on air

from blooms diverse

in shape and hue

the pungent loam

of opened soil

yields a generous bounty

of fruit from

the fertile earth

let us be one

among all that moves

playing to the music

of the intimate dance

of time and light

To Those Who Ask

to those who ask

I have little less

than nothing to spare

tell me

if it is enough

Fritillaries

a pair of Fritillaries

float drift and glide

dancing on air

weaving interlaced designs

around one another 

in arcs

of becoming

ascending

on an invisible strand

like lovers consummating

in a spiral 

of forgetting

who they are