spring sunset

I was going to blog about the mid-April sunset as a metaphor for hope juxtaposed with the conclusion of another day. Instead, I’ll just look out my window on an unseasonably mild spring afternoon and write down what I observe.

spring sunset —
a faded red ribbon
tied to a tree

spring sunset —
a twig snaps
beneath the tire

spring sunset —
a sigh of resignation
when the lawn mower starts

spring sunset —
the next-door neighbor’s
noisy convertible

spring sunset —
our old dog’s
heavy sigh

vapor trail

Walking my dog tonight, as I do five nights a week, I notice it’s getting darker later and later. Bonita’s age — she turns twelve next month — renders her more and more anxious to indulge herself in her favorite activity earlier and earlier. Tonight it was about a half hour past sunset, but still light enough to see the vapor trails from passing airplanes that are ubiquitous in the Suburbs. I had seen this phenomenon countless times before, but tonight it got me thinking, first of the classic song by Ride, and then a myriad images of things ephemeral...

news of his illness —
a vapor trail
in the sky

his faraway voice —
a vapor trail
in the sky

my rising blood pressure —
a vapor trail
in the sky

wilting daffodils —
a vapor trail
in the sky

her graying muzzle —
a vapor trail
in the sky

October dusk (and variation)

October dusk —
wishing I could see
just one more firefly

October dusk —
just one more
firefly

abandoned

abandoned
on the J train —
a broken rose

spring snow

spring snow —
waving to my youngest grandchild
on Skype

spring snow —
clearing off the windshield
with my baseball glove

spring snow —
the cactus
is unmoved

spring snow —
all the projects
I’ve never finished

spring snow —
I stare at my footprints
and sigh

spring snow —
the dog doesn’t
understand

a cloudy sort of day

All of these are at least ten years old, but could have easily been written today:

waiting for her call
I stare
at thunderclouds

sudden cloudburst —
the street puddles
join hands

thickening clouds —
a steady downpour
of beer

playing catch with my sons
...not a cloud in the sky

unrecognized
by an old friend —
clouds without rain

sunny spring day —
walking through a cloud
of perfume

disappearing into a cloudless sky a child’s balloon

snow turns to rain —
a familiar name
in the obituary

snow turns to rain —
the afterglow
of the plow lights

snow turns to rain —
words
I can’t take back

winter twilight —
a ladybug lands
on the wood stove

winter twilight —
a crow flies
into shadow

winter twilight —
I don’t remember ever
being that young

moonless night —
to have died
so young...

moonless night —
I never know
what to say

moonless night —
a child’s bicycle
in the snow

restless morning —
the winter fly
comes back to life

restless night —
somewhere
an ice dam...

restless night —
the kiss
that never was

snow day —
more white than I remember
in my beard

Christmas cocktail —
the children build an igloo
in an old photograph

footprints in the snow
words
I can’t take back

cold moon —
the snap of a twig
under my boot

December rain —
the long night
longer

two weeks before Christmas
the search
for the broken bulb

snow flurries —
the crackle
of an old 78

lazy midtown morning —
another layer of paint
on the rusty fire escape

lazy midtown morning —
do those green copper gargoyles
feel the cold?

new moon —
my eldest grandchild
turns four