He is telling the story again.
The North country, red-blooded as a cell
where you could love living
and dying at the same time

where youth was catness
curved on Grandpapa's brow, fearless
rising like small notions in dissonance.

He is calling up old passions.
Whittle back root and hair, an eye
to haunt an old face.

And a thousand rivers later
he's tapping on his cup of ouzo,
legs heavy as timber. He no longer makes
jokes about them for huzza.
Only walking is laughter.

The silent forests hold their judgement
in suspense, breathe their deep emotion
like white-haired parents of us all,
and in their veins,
the same red streams.

He is planting trees by memory.

Alzheimers
.....for G

The neighbors are saying you
don't deserve this. They have offered
solace and green cabbage again
in exchange for sleep.

Last week it was four in the morning
you went spinning like a child
crying the stars were falling,
your piteous grandstand disease.

Now it is down to a kick in the pants
thing. I have packed your memories,
what is left of them, photos to hang,
your Sartons and Doves - a few of your own.

To think I have finally emulated
your cup of tea. I bite my tongue
over these pages and pray you
will not remember sooner.

The Mantis

She holds her breath
beyond the pale
     slow
          motion
               espalier
of twined arches,
night prayers
auguring moon
and mantis.
Shifts beneath
     baritone shades
          gentian blue
wraps
and wraps
her clarion dreams
     trembling
          approaching
               climbing,

summer's clematis.

Writing a Poem

This asylum burns
with Chrysanthemums
and Autumn bonfires
curling the corners of
the soul,
licking at the dross
and all its worthless ponderings
caught in the throat
like quiet paper.
The knees buckle.
The soul resonates
to the sharp hollow spine
and rests.

O, how I hold you
in the foxfire...
hands smouldering
from the palest splinter.

On a Valley's Palm

For awhile, you need to fill in
the half-empty spaces, to
count the ones lost.
(a human thing)

Death has too many for a lifetime
so I keep only one,
when as a child
he held me there

by the soft breeze of his heart.

I've learned there comes a time
later, much later
after the wide berths begin to ease
and twilight oversleeps

living goes on, has it's way.

The way a soft breeze
on a valley's palm
moves cool and light across your nape
lingering long, and longing

you reach to touch the space where it was.

Reflections at the Barre

This has been with me
     since first loving
your delicate attitude,
     elbows curved in fifth position

poised to the measure.
     Perfection, Maestro -
barre and resin,
     tendons resilient with good pain.

I can leap backward now
     from a long stretch ago
to the author of my memory,
     wrinkled as crepe paper.

I stretch over slow dances
     holding corners of yesterday
by a thumbtack.
     Still with grace,

I bend into the mirrored wall,
     see fair and fortune
reflecting dimmer lights.
     Yet, it is clear.

Again, Maestro -
     attitude is everything
when practice
     did not make perfect.

Time

You left early this morning
as usual leaving a trail
room turned upside down
a rush to be somewhere
          yesterday
I stare from your bedroom door
a reel of your life late for
                                   tomorrow
your clock ticks loudly
on the night table
ruffled pillows tossed
clothes unhung
I kneel to gather your things
straighten the blue rug
beside your bed
                                   pause
          today
I find your knees
printed
in
prayer