Crisscross

There's one bloom left
on the front yard rose,
being November that's not bad news.

The foreclosure should settle soon
and another round of birthdays
will end the calendar.

The bluff busy bees 
clambor a long lonely lavender,
winter already whispering.

To be useful
I open a book sent in the mail,
something about Jesus in a grocery store
sharing short cake in the storm.

Window Seat

The honeymoon lifts
to a cruising altitude
of eye to eye,
the rings catch light
chipped from tandem stars.

Tide Fool

What I read,

hand shading the gold glint

of the ocean,

is my little pocket book

of lies

and aberration.

My wife trusts God

to know me

better than I know myself.

The small cold rock of

a song I sang Sunday

turns in my hand.

If my brother whispered

something similar I'd throw it

a mile deep, past dolphins, dinghies,

and the wrong side of dawn.

The bench I watch the west from

is a pew to the wide sky and white caps.

What I negotiate here, what I navigate,

what I need is a way to walk on land,

as well as He traversed the waves.