In darkened room somnolent she lies
while high above the horned moon
cast dim shadows cross the night.

So now she sleeps.
how soft she breaths,
no movement yet, she could be dead.

But winter closes, snows thaw then flow.
Earth warms, she moves,
her time has come.

Languid, stretches limbs;
She sighs, she smiles,
another year.

She stands a tip toe a ballerina fair,
looks on her world,
bestows new life.

A delicious taste of the
oatmeal raisin cookie
intrigue as a favorite kind
indulge in a hungry craving
for a sweet tooth of desire
from a grandma’s baking
permeate kitchen stage
fills with emotional display
that comes with a wide
an array of special
made for a guest's visit
A cup of chocolate milk
given add to a perfect match
for the lunch snack treat
at the spending moment
It embraces the heart with joy
elated smile put on a face
a lullaby song to play

"Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass..."
~ William Wordsworth

The trees have blossoms
of pastel bangles and lace ribbons.
I am lying within the splendour in the grass,
surrounded by naive hyacinth and lily of the valley.
A yellow warbler quickens back and forth, its song
stirring the air, flirting with a jealous breeze
as the ambiance of April envelopes
me, awakening my senses.

The clouds billow along.
I am floating,
waltzing with the sun.

Dispense sing with fidelity blithely agog
just me and mine dark shadow
slinking along outer limits of
the edge of night doth blog
passivity, the path
of least resistance ohm my dog,
shocking voltage amply
surges an emphatic YES,
verboten fruit adrip
with succulent juices as eggnog,

I sought earnestly,
to speak with the dead.
To put an end to the hell
existing only in their head.
To conjure spectres
at night in their dread.
The ghostly images,
of light down the hall
would gather round
to answer my call.
Then venture forth
out into the night
and visit their graves
until first breaking light.
Released from their torment
here on the earth
ready to pass
from this life into rebirth!

sometimes i think i have too much ambition.
i just can’t help wanting it all with you:

the garden in the backyard,
dirt stains on your jeans from kneeling in the dirt,
homegrown rhubarb pie cooling in our kitchen.

the coffee table photo album
with polaroids from a hundred different places;
france, germany, new york, and maine .

a big old tree for us to lay under,
soft grass to cushion our heads
and a sea of stars for us to admire.

How is it, in all these centuries
We haven’t yet learned to get along?
Why can’t we hold different opinions
Without coming to blows?
Why can’t we let people who earned something
Keep it, instead of stealing it from them?
Why don’t we recognize the human right
Of people to live in peace
And raise their children without fear?
Why do a handful of thieving bullies
Get away with making war,
And taking what isn’t theirs,
And abusing people?
Will we ever find ways to live together
Peaceably,

Devastated with the news of
a late winter storm and black ice,
I was tempted to re hibernate
for the duration

Sweet little child of April,
the spring loaded cherub
of warmer weekends,
I was fooled by the sunshine

Woe is me... the jester grins dark,
and sweet April, mildly amused
promises to love me
next week.

The following words crafted soon after the soul of me daddy set adrift into the empyrean realm joining the rank and file of entities constituting spiritus mundi.

Borne aloft into the netherland
the body bearing thee soul
of Boyce Brandon Harris
birth name given to my late father
buoyed into the great beyond
united with spirit
of mine late mother Harriet,
whose passing well nigh nineteen
orbitz of the earth around the sun.

We don't say it
but our bones melt into one
and become the shape of it

.