For Samsø
(and the dialogue about love that was started there).

i walk the road leading into the field.
it is lined with
a row of now leaf barren trees,
a groomed wind-block
on the southern side.
in the north
an empty field,
the harvest was taken
some months ago.
i do not know
what grew there.
what was sown and
harvested were never questions
i asked.
now,
the field is lined
with tractor marks
that have collected rain water.
in the last light of the day
the frozen pools appear as glass,
as if the sky broke
and shattered downward.
i stand silently and observe
the last of the daylight
which is caught momentarily in the
frozen surfaces.
i watch the day as it
moves with haste
and witness the approaching night
that seems too eager
to arrive.
i wonder how this field
will be
in a few months;
when the snow and rains have stopped
and the earth dries.
when the seeds are spread
and the deer mark their
crossing path once more.
how will it be
when the wind-block
refills its branches
with a green
only nature can perfect?
how will time move
then?
how will its passage appear
here in a way that mirrors
nature, but also seems displaced
and removed slightly
so that symmetry will
never truly work in this place?
what creature will
look on?
a human, no doubt;
awkward and beautiful,
equal parts fear and love.
standing as one does
when in awe, when perplexed,
when confronted
by the subtle shifts
in the natural world
that we recognize within ourselves.

the trees are covered in ice

it is early morning

the air is frigid

the day will warm

and the ice will melt

the trees are covered in ice

it is early morning

the air is frigid

the day will warm

and the ice will melt

the trees are covered in ice

it is early morning

the air is frigid

the day will warm

and the ice will melt

it continues

and continues

i have never seen snow

fall like this

it hangs in the air

suspended

i wonder if it is enjoying

the gentle descent

downward

the earth says

wait
i am not yet ready for you

the snow continues

and says

i am not here
for you

For August

a crow calls out in the early morning
i rise and let the cat inside
the air is frigid
he enters and tells me everything
pacing about
gently bumping his head
against my leg
i boil water
and prepare my tea
then sit on the couch
cradling the hot mug in my hands
the cat rests against me
purrs softly
then louder as he warms
i leave the lights off
it is midmorning
yet no sun reaches beyond the clouds
leaving the room dim
with soft outlines of everything
i feel a tingling of uncertainty
so many questions rise to the surface
of my mind
i close my eyes
and return to august
remembering the humidity
that hung heavy and finally broke
when a rainstorm passed
we sat in it
letting the rain cool us
we were looking at one another
still unsure
still timid
our minds running wild
craving everything
everything
that time passed too quickly
like the humidity that broke
when the rainstorm
rolled in without warning
now the air is frigid
the light dim
with soft shadows everywhere
and i am here
cradling a cup of now tepid tea
and an image of us in the rain
wanting desperately to act
on every desire

For Eszter

trees touch the early blue of dawn.
these old fingers,
bent from life and seasons
of joy and work,
are still moved
by pleasures of youth.
i enter
and wake you softly.
you, still wrapped in sleep,
warm, with
gentle sighs that tell of dreams,
of worlds not understood here,
here in waking-life.
your body, perfect to me,
extends and stretches,
exposing warm flesh.
it unfolds
and i explore your figure
as if for the first time.
i breathe in your sleep,
tracing your being
with my lips.
my body presses against yours,
my erection
reveals my thirst.
in continuous lines
i draw you with my fingertips
so as to hold this forever.