campfire

Autumn calls and sends a lovely chill
down my sleepy spine, against the waves of will.
An orange campfire wakes under my skin,

and when you’re near it glows with oxygen.

Come, gather round with marshmallows and sticks!

I am warm and wonderful and full of tricks-

could walk a tightrope stretched across the town,

or toast you to an expert golden brown.

But sadly, you escape my trembling hands

and shoot up like a spark into the wind.

You carve a quick orange trail into the sky,
a trail I cannot walk, nor can I fly.

So I let the marshmallows burn to total ash.

and learn the taste of fire, reckless, rash.
I sing familiar campfire songs under the stars,
and welcome the inevitable winter with my inevitable guitar.

waiting

I remember lying in the grass,
waiting for rain to come-
for ideas to flow
like droplets from the sky
or grass up from the ground
into my skull.

I remember lying
with my back in the snow
and my face to the white sky,
soaking in the blank,
waiting to fall asleep
and wake up frozen
in a snow bank.

I remember walking
down the sidewalk
and in aimless circles
around the cul-de-sac,
waiting for someone
to suddenly appear
and save the day
or listen to me talk.

I remember sitting
silent on a rock,
listening to the trees'
roaring applause.
The wind had given them
a sensational show.
I could not see a single act,
although I felt him bow.

I turned into a little leaf
scooped up by a gust
and carried to your feet.
You were there in the rain
and the grass and the snow
all that time I waited blind,
oblivious to the show.