Rock Bed

Full marble moon

rolls snow shadows

across high Christmas chaparral.

A million moth fat flakes

fly in the face of a driven man,

wise tomorrow.

Short visit.

Long road ahead,

behind,

and beside the unblinking

lane change.

Family tree, measured

in miles. Our pace,

our place on the King's highway,

eternal.

Apron Strings

The sweet part of an onion

stings. When you won't

call home, I cut slices

under water.

Setting plates around the table

one breaded breast enough for two,

but not enough for Christmas.

Heaven invites us to save

a chair, the number of chairs

to make a party, astronomical.

Old wounds don't need salt.

Grace, a feast for the eyes.

Silver Lining

The closest hawk 

cuts a silhouette against  milk clouds.

The horizon, half sea and half water reflected,

swallows the swell of the ocean at bay.

A kayak arrows to the sun's roll in the waves,

paddle length dripping back

to glide.

Worship is a tidal ventricle

pumping the planet's peace.

Jealous turtles surrender the shore to

muck boots in chorus, a choir of pink whispers

before the set.

Nature trumps the natural way of thinking,

it's the breath taking secret 

of the breath giver.