remembering the roses of summer–
of Guadalupe’s tears,
of easy walks on flat roads,
of laborers in low riders,
of a soft satin language
flooding dusty arroyos

morning frost clings with crystal determination–
its icy grip slips in the wake of the rising sun
which demands the loosening, the easing,
the teasing caress of disintegration

it seemed like you watched me approach–
i felt the life pulse in your beauty
in your flaws
in your vibrant color
in your delicate vines
and irridescent petals–
i felt the life pulse
as you watched me walk away

acoustic guitar
crinkle paper on dried flowers
midnight rain on the roof
the call of a crow
the soft, sifting sound from the wings of flying geese
clacking typewriter keys
distant thunder
dried leaves in the wind
an approaching train

the fading beauty of fall

turning, bending and twisting in search of the sun’s golden rays–
I take a lesson from the sunflower and turn toward the waning light

red rose of November,
linger,
stay awhile,
help me ease into the approaching winter wind

against soft grey skies
dry seed pods
stretch with brittle beauty–
bending and yearning
with open abandon

The smell transfixes me.
I close my eyes and drink.

I wanted to touch those tiny petals but was afraid
of crushing you with my enthusiasm.