Untitled Tanka

I crave a northbound

road to unhaunted landscapes,

worries left behind,

to where a soft wind rises

over and quiets my mind.

Late Sun

Riding along the

rural road this evening, the

burn in my muscles

dropped away for a time, and

the late sun glowed like honey.

Tanka at Lake Clear

Last night's loons now cruise
half submerged as wind sculpts waves.
They save their song for
the night, when summer stars light
the soft scallops of high peaks.

July Morning

The rider slices

open the thick air, feels a

gentle push of wind

only the birds and he know,

the world breathing and alive.

River

I am a river,

cutting across man-made right

angle roads and fields,

willful, stubborn, to be worked

around, and not to be changed.

Messages (7/17/12)

Lake water stroking

the shore, wind passing over

me like breath, sunlight

flashing on, off through my closed

eyelids, saying all is well.

Adirondack Haiku and Tanka (7/15/12)

A day's talking is

done—now the rain's soft patter

outside is enough.

Inside, low light and

a soft chair; outside, peaks reach

into the dark night.

An unlocked door, a

room with a bed—sleep well, and

pay in the morning.

July, and wood stacked

by the hearth promises light,

heat for short, cold days.

Question after an

arduous climb: insight

or just a light head?

On the peak's leeward

side—moss and flowers cling to

scant dirt on hard rock.

Returning to camp

at night, my light finds five pairs

of yellow eyes that

watch from the pine's boughs: raccoons

beginning the second shift.

Morning Mirror

Reaching out, bristly
and stiff, shades of brown and gray
greet me after dreams
retreat like nocturnal beasts.
In the mirror, a day's growth.

Broken Mirrors

Broken mirrors are
what I have: fierce edges where
reflection ends, so
difficult to hold, but true—
as true as anything is.

December River

A river told me
today: Don't be the idle
ice clinging to the
banks; be the quick, dark, quiet
water flowing beyond it.