Still

So much to say before the air
begins to turn

bells cease to ring broken
promises, steeples empty now of wings

only ghosts glimpsed in tatters
turn blue corners, in quick flutters

they dart in and out through portals;
elusive as minnows flickering through

gaping nets lost to the sway
currents fraught with undecided

still

11/01/09

Again, the geese are flying
South, a flutter of words on
a blue page –

For a second, the world is full
of nothing more than black and white
wings that flag and signal

a start, a change of season.
I think of you on the other side
of a windy world

where waves lick at sea-scummed
rocks that have guarded shores
since before we were born.

With the instinct of a migrant
you will return and take root in dreams
in the roll of luminous waves reflected

in the sweeping eye of a lighthouse
as clouds puff up and grumble
shooed away by fair-weather winds.

I grin to think that we are so tiny -
grains of sand that spin pearls
into the mouths of oysters

split open on a beach at dawn.