Three poems from bystanders on a late afternoon

Set the horizon just above the bones


Lying deep in chill

Layered in soiled mantles,

The spring grass waits

In the churn of hope

And the customs that years tend to build.

Like promises from old friends:

Taken easily,

without haste,

And carried through the field.


Mind this vista well.

Explore the escapes of hills

And secret creeks,

Long walks during the bright times,

Wanderings during foggy mornings,

And the staggering stupors

Of the dying weeks.


Lean back,

Eyes closed,

Stars above,

Feet below.

Breathe the air,

Sparkling now,


In evening’s soft glow.