Revealed in frost

I’d let my mind wander

to the times that were

but I’d be afraid

of what’s in my mind.

I’d discover

all the flaws,

and the frauds,

that I have become

in the ruins

that I would find.

I’d rather wander

in the dark

always unaware,


in the naivete

of the here-and-now

(buried like some pained

expression pulled from my face).

Now every winter


like leaves left on the tree

stands out, in stark contrast,

like all the things

I promised I would be.

I’ll say it doesn’t matter,

that out on the horizon

is some solution,

but I know it’s not of my making

and that there’s simply

no truth in it.

Later, with winter settled-in,

and used to this malaise

I’ll cast my thoughts forward

once again

to the promise of Future Days.

I’ll let this placate me,

take me somewhere soft

and nice

and I’ll pretend I’ve set

a plan in place…

wouldn’t that be nice?


Equi Homme




and then the alarm rang

and I awoke;

suddenly ready

to welcome winter, 

with autumn

still thriving

and strengthening. 

But I can sense it


and I notice the angle

of the suns declination

and that is all I need.

I go into the distance

where winter 

awaits me:

My warmest lover. 

What lingers is sadness

Some of the late
autumn trees
still hold their leaves.
They fill-in
behind those
for whom the last leaf
has long-ago
moved on.
The beautiful austerity
of the naked trees
reveals a certain vulgarity
for those still showing
summers finery.
Each silhouettes itself
as perspective shifts
in my passing,
and the outstretched fingers
of the many
seem to accuse the rest
of a treachery.
The cloaked trees
know what’s coming
and they don’t care.
They hunch their shoulders
and turn inward.
They will welcome winter
and then disrobe:
trading the warmth of the leaves
for the demure dignity
of soft snow.


Some light
The autumn trees,
willowy and delicate,
showing colors
unique to each,
in row after row:
reds, oranges,
browns and yellows,
quiver and dance
in the light breeze,
in flashes,
their colors
and then
The puddles
show back
the gray sky
and exult
with every passing car.
Turned leaves
spiral with the wind
and collect in shifts
on grass and curb.
The wind rises up
and batters the house
making sounds
from silent siding
and giving voice
to the stoic structures
while cleaning out
the refuse of summer
with autumn’s broom.

A dusting

There may be little
that is as sad
or euphoric
as first snowfall.
Your adult mind returns
to the mystery of childhood
and a day spent romping
and exploring
places familiar
now made new
by a dusting of white.
As it is now
I cannot help but see
the slush and gray
of the early snow
as afternoon closes,
like the joys of childhood
long receded
that way too.


I can feel the summer wind

call to me again, again

and all I know is I can’t win

and living life’s become a sin…

and I know,

yet I know

that there’s truth

to the rumor

that this is good.

I can hear the winter cry

telling me, “don’t even try”,

it seems unfair if I ask, “why?”

Fall is here, it’s time to die.

Still, I know

it’s all I know

that there’s no truth

to the rumor

that I’m getting by.