dusk run

I run tonight
at the rabbit hour
after the rain,
mist rising off the
damp pavement
but it isn't cold
and the moon shines
yellow through
leftover clouds.
A short loop,
then an out-and-back,
my longest run
since the baby and
it feels good
even when it hurts.
The stretch beyond
the turnaround
grades just so,
a faint incline that
feels harder than a hill
because the eye says it flat
but the body disagrees,
and I think that crazy
may be as simple as that:
A fight between
the eyes and limbs
of a man who doesn't
know he's almost home.

three sons

Dandelion flower
an hour before dawn,
balled up small,
I wait
for the slow
grow of chill gray
into lighter day,
aching for
sun, son, and Son.

flower girls

The camellias early bloom
in a rush of pink,
immodest and brash beauties,
all rouge and no blush.

The magnolia holds
her buds like velvet tears
suspended in a slow tableau,
their hour not yet come.

Brazen camellia
browns quick as she pinked,
drops in a heap.

Sweet magnolia
opens clean and snow white
face to the light.

hibernation preparation

The squirrels and I
are stocking up,
a bit rounder each day,
tucking away
by instinct
for the coming change.
We store and gather,
prodded by
a bone-deep knowing:
Winter will come.
Then we who have
scurried will be still,
sink down,
settle fast and firm
into the dark
that brings life.