Dusk

old embers flit along the line of clouds,
like fingers strum horizon’s humming haze,
a distant note reverberates, on fire
and striking rain-soaked sky like lit up gasoline.
Grey echoes buzz, the mountains shake
are dancing through the flame
are casting shadows creaking like a closing door:
the hinges on a rusty autumn day
thrown into darkness thick as smoke
the last notes ringing in the night.

Sunday, May 17th

Conversation washes over the room.
Windows of grey sky, rainy morning eyes,
Sweet bottom dregs: a mug of tea,
Wool socks over tucked-in-toes,
Stories stacked in crooked piles.

Cold water washes over the stones.
Shrouded in grey sky, rainy morning peaks,
Sweet ripples spread: a swelling lake,
Wet docks under barefoot steps;
Trees stretch up in crooked spires.