A rare day distilled

Served over the winter's ice

Almost to the brim

 When you pull a thread

It might be the only seam

That comes unfastened

 Discount the answers

What would complete the questions?

The untold will tell

Concealed in the gray

Every storm has a  rainbow

Wanting for sunlight

 no one sleeps alone

the visitors in our dreams

are what we have known

Speaking with silence

Seasons expressed in tree rings

History of rain

 A life of moments

Some that will be remembered

Far into the past

 To what do you bow?

I to the wind - rain - birdsongs

All that is graceful

Patience rewarded 

Replenished by Autumn rain

A grateful garden

 A coastal cottage

Thick Scottish stew for supper

Sea-winds howl outside

 High on the mountain

The first storm of the winter

Woods made dark and white

 Knit with Irish wool

Buttons of many colors

A wee lad’s sweater

 Higher than the pines

Seven crows for company

Where the wind flies free

 In whatever voice

We all desire to be heard

And then understood 

Facing to the wind

I'll be searching from the cliffs

For sun on the sails

Delusive prattle

Misshapen politicians

Talking to themselves

 When she smiles and laughs

It warms and illuminates

Constant as the sun

 I lounge and linger

Seduced by the grog of the day

Halcyon - in peace

Storms will come and pass

Lashing us with pure fury

For them be grateful

 What country of worth

Without native rebellion

Can think itself whole?

 Listen carefully

Everything has its own voice

Rocks - trees - and the sea

 The morning still dim

A lone mockingbird calls first

The smell of coffee 

 I passed a woman

Who chose to take the same trail

Strangers no longer

 Gray and cold to touch

Scattered by the wind and lost

Ashes of her love

 Tragedy of fear

There are those who die while young

But live to old age

 Lilac and jasmine

The scent of mother’s garden

Lingers from my youth

Flour dusting her hair 

She kneaded love in the dough

And set it to rise

 What chances between

Can we say more than we know?

Intangible grasp

 In a muted room

She lingers at the window

Envying the light

A rotted pumpkin

Collapsing from its spoilage

Grist for history