Winter light is soft in the south
glowing gas flame red,
day breaking with a cold chill,
the ground covered in leaves
as the sweet gum and maple
shed their summer coats
for the descent into root,
the dying desire
for what comes and goes
passing without heat
into the rain soaked soil.
I let go with the breath of trees
what was mine for a season,
impossible as sand
and gone like sunlight,
harvesting these few hours
before falling into night.

With young souls troubled,
old souls feel
the approach of winter;
we clean the sidewalks,
repair parts and pieces
but reports darken
what remains of the light.
The larder is thin,
rains are heavy
yet despite the weight
we take our young
to the edge of morning
and look to the east,
an old habit,
foolish perhaps,
still we nurture
while we can
the seeds
of their innocence.

The silence between us
and the autumn trees
holds the story
of all the fallen
on the long road
of violence, outcast
from the garden
by the madness
we refuse to define.

Baseball’s over
and the olive tree mourns
with faded colors falling
into rain wet ground,
forgiving the hope
of soft air and summer nights,
no wanting but warmth
as the sun drops south
and winter approaches.

Winds are blowing off Elliot Bay,
rain in sheets on the hills;
old Seattle waking up to black coffee
and the sound of another storm.
I’m heading out
to find an egg in this town,
maybe some bacon and bread.
Gusts pound off the buildings
challenging their insult;
sea birds hunker down
tucked into their wings.
What’s born on the ocean
has time on its side
but I’ve a few pennies of kindness
and a dollar or two of ambition.
It’s time to face the wind.