Dead Tree in the Fog

A dead tree
stands barren
enveloped by
a grey fog
that casts over,
like a mystery.
the landscape
draping the ground.
Lines blurred between
what will be left
and what is transient.
Like that tree
are we just standing
around waiting for life
to finally cut us down?

Words are Imperfect

I'm never going
to write words
in rhyme.
Instead I want my
words to slid off your
tongue to form a song
like the melody
of two song birds singing
in unison.

Bendable words
but not unbreakable
for me the writer
and you
the reader.

Words can leave us feeling
indifferent,
angry,
regretful.
If I'm lucky you recognize
your own hidden truths inside
my words.

Words can forgive.
Words can forget.
Words can live on
and transcend our lives
leaving those left with
remnants of who we
once were.
These written words I am offering up
are like long love letters to my life.
For what is in between these words,
those silent spaces,
are left as words are imperfect.

Harbingers of What is to Come

The fog rests on the trees
blurring the tree tops.
Reminds me of an impressionist painting.

Multi-color traces streak
down from the sky,
leaves starting their last dance.
Harbingers of what is to come.

Dew will soon be replaced with frost
and darkness will slowly envelop
to leave us cold and the ground barren.

Faith will lead us to remember that
one day the sun will rejoin with
more frequency each day until we
are left with life returning.