The Gold in Rings

The gold in rings
is, in a sense, forgiving:
Daily wear leaves little sign,
and damage that looks permanent
may be absorbed in time,
seeming almost to be healed--
though by what strange, redeeming force,
it does no good to guess.

Possibly it's buffed away,
or maybe human eyes
just learn to overlook the obvious;
to see the scratch as part of the design--
whatever, it is comforting
to feel the ring is whole
and know that even grievous injuries
can, given long--and love--enough,
take on the dignity at least
of scars.

Every contact wears each ring a little thinner, true;
no one here's unscathed by life,
not you or I,
and even love is bruising.
But we are faithful to the gold that has forgiven us;
we know this metal has the strength to link us
to the future from our past.
We know that if we simply wear them well,
these rings will last.


1/30/2003

Absent-Minded Winter

Absent-minded winter finally snowed.
The early birds rued Nature's bad advice.
But left with little choice,
they sang us down the road on which
our unused boots broke unaccustomed ice.


1/30/2003

How Can I Be Like the Gull?

He does not, cannot apologize
for his opportunistic ways.
His calm, expectant eye
is outward, to the chance of gain,
not inward to regret,
self-doubt, or shame.
All his days are one;
he does not hesitate
to seize the life he finds and gulp it down.


1/30/2003

I Was Watching the Crows

I was watching the crows call to each other,
how they bobbed on the swinging wires,
flirted their feathers,
ducked their heads,
and cawed;
four times did one
that I thought might be their leader,
over and over
as the rest flew in.

I heard their different voices, saw
how one plucked at his breast with his bill,
and wondered what it was like
to live in a murder.

The sun was once again coming up
in the intervening silence.


10/27/2008

Part of What We Believe

Part of what we believe
is that the good outweighs the bad.
That is not all that we believe,
but we try to believe it most.


10/26/2008

A History Thus Far Untitled

This was hardly the first time I had been so roughly used--or should I say abused?--yet was I perhaps the more keenly sensible of its impropriety for being so well acquainted with similar hardships in times past. Nothing overwhelms the senses (not to mention the intellect) so much as simple novelty; nothing sharpens them to a fine discrimination like long-standing familiarity.

Recourse had I none, which was perhaps as well, for if the chance for revenge had presented itself I should probably have taken it, and been undone thereby. As it was, I had but one choice to make, whether to stay or go, and this decision was taken within ten minutes of the event.

It was a moment's work to ready my horse--though I confess it felt more like an hour, as every motion, I was convinced, was scrutinized by hostile eyes. Fully conscious of the danger in which I stood, I was hard pressed to walk the beast calmly from the stable to the mounting block and there, with my accustomed assumed clumsiness, haul myself into the saddle.

Head well down, I urged my horse into a shambling walk toward the courtyard gates. As I lolled sideways in the saddle, I searched the windows that stared down from every wall, hoping to see one particular face and fearing to see those of my enemies. But no face appeared, either dear or despised, and it was with a peculiar mixture of relief and regret contending in my heart that I passed the gates and emerged onto the well-remembered road--whose surface, it seemed, I must have traveled a year or more since at least, so slowly had the days of my voluntary incarceration stumbled by.

At first I dared nothing but to continue, at the same slow, steady pace with which I had begun. Certainly there was no immediate reason for me to be missed; none looked for me to appear, and indeed most might expect me to remain hidden some time, licking my wounds as it were, in some dark corner of the house. Yet happenstance is cruel, and any chance glance out of doors might yet discover me, so long as I remained in sight.

But the moments passed, and no alarm was given, and gradually I relaxed, and so soon as I had passed into the welcome shelter of the wood that bordered the road a mile north of the gate, I straightened in the saddle, stretching cramped muscles and giving a heartfelt groan of relief. Once I was a little comforted and feeling like my old self again, however, it next came to me that I must consider what to do, and that quickly. Plainly, my plan of subterfuge must now be abandoned, for once having left the villains' lair, I could not return in the character I had assumed without facing the keenest suspicion as to the reasons for my absence. Equally, loitering in the neighborhood in hopes of collecting some further intelligence seemed a futile endeavour. No; plainly, my only course was to return to London, report what had occurred, and formulate a plan with my compatriots.

A plan: Easy to say, but hard indeed, it then appeared, to create. Yet created it must be, and of such a nature that it would encompass both the ruin of my enemies and the safe return of she whom I held most dear.

A plan! For such a plan as this, my brain would fever willingly, for without it all my life would be sham, a broken thing, a ruin. There and then I resolved, by all I was capable of conjuring, not to rest until I had seen both the plan's creation and its successful execution. Then, and only then, would I rest satisfied, with the accomplishment of my heart's desire and the safety of my nation assured.


To be continued...


2/8/2008

Morning Walk

A roughly tumbled, scumbled sky;
a field the color of sleep.
Around, the houses dream.
And overhead the stream
of cormorants commuting to the harbor
signals day.
My dog and I will go back home.


10/20/2008