In Este

In Este the vineyards wept under the expanding

fog. Her empty eyes stared at me and

in their reverberating darkness I was trapped as

her spirit formed aged velvet crystals in my glass.

Violins scented of spring and a tiny droplet from her

barefooted dance inundated the morning breeze.

My foot stamped the gravel as a thinly crusted air

forced its way into my soul. Then

life evolved from her humid smile and from

her ancient throne she guided the perennial path

of yellow in the automn while day and

night her people gather under bread of moon

and salt of stars, pulling forward into

the simple complexity of life

Connections

I like the moment when my hand
opens up a window to the unknown

polar winds, a vintage of lifetimes and stories,
now caressing my combusting hand.

For an instant, we are sand: constrained and
docile to the invisibility of our surroundings.

A neon moon brings me in touch with my
most primitive instincts: claiming ownership of

the next wrong step and a turn that is a season too late.
Cha cha cha... Your hands of oak center me in

a forest of penetrating humidity and darkness where
you are trapped in the comforting walls of a

perennial stalactite - robust and fragile - as I
await to surrender to the next morning breeze