Fern Rock

stolid stone sentinel
from which fern
and sapling sprout

proud memento of
a tumultuous age
bearing scars of

season’s wiles on
its ruddy countenance
creased by rain

pocked by ice
lashed by wind
burnished by sun

standing as symbol
fulcrum and anchor
balancing stasis and

change on solid
base and end-
point orientation as

I pass on
my round about
your domain returning

the way I
came with questions
that abide silence

whistling in wind
at treetop sifting
light and shadow

concealing more of
what waits to
be found

Foxdrive

Fox Drive
(Ca. 1948)

hundred men strong
gathered at dawn
in a circle
round rolling pasture
cudgels in hand
drawing the noose
tighter around the
unsuspecting quarry safe
in their den
stunned to alarm
by sounds above
and around on
the ground where
they ran freely
now testing for
a breach in
the line circling
their waning freedom
on blunt edge
of roughhewn
club opening fir
splitting bone
spitting blood stilled
into a pile
of wide-eyed wonder
at the sudden
end in a
contest of uneven
odds and I
standing in stunned
silence at the
slaughter of innocent
predator at the
hands of placid
farmers aflame with
revenge sworn to
a silent code
that answered to
the call of
blood in warmth
of noonday sun

The Future

the future approaches
rattling its sword
secure the door
against encroaching knight

Sweet Sprig

sweet sprig of
youth’s gentle flower
more alive than now

angel’s timorous image
is hardly contained in
spring’s emerging hour

Should You Pass This Way

should you pass
this way
all would seem
as it was
when time could be
taken to wonder
wishes had no limits
and dreams
found a place
to dwell beyond fear
the source
of all things
soft gentle and supple

Of Origins

who knows
we may
be distantly
one of same
though neither would claim
same to be
so

of boundary
we abut
yet do
not touch
each savored share
unaware

we nudge
perhaps nuzzle
just to
befuddle
the muddle
where edge
meets notch

but parts
do not
fit to
join a
whole

The Mill

warm sleepless nights
walking the tracks
past the place
where sweat poured tears
down backs bent
to tasks like
bad habits unbroken
totting lives counted down
in heavy hours
punched on cards
clocking routine in
systematic rounds
through dust heat
and musky peat
rising off logs
curing in brine
to be rolled on
lathes slicing transparent pulp
ribbon-thin like skin
stacked in layers
awaiting the dryer
pressing essence out of life
into crisp slateboard slats
recording memory
in simple steps
frozen in stasis
for those who passed
points of no return
without recourse
choice or escape
from the place
where poignancy rings
in echoes from voices
of a thousand sons