With wild imagination, the sky
speaks in colors and contortions
before storms settle in the mountains,

as gray clouds scout a trail to camp,
a granite peak to rest upon,
run aground, snow and rain.

Three score years plus
of looking up—and away,
daydreaming fleeting poetry

even as a child out the window
of a forced nap—another tongue
with no letters in its language,

only colors and shapes
from every perspective,
no two the same.



  1. Flavor in the brown, hope in the gray. Who would have thought it’d become a favorite color? I feel a re-hydration coming to a dusty mind, fingers plumping to caress the pen.
    Just as Dry Creek flushes out restrictions to flow, rain will surely bring rejuvenation and fresh inspiration to the word smith, the poet.
    We, the benefactor


    • I would hope so, but my recollections of real rains are a bit frivolous now, I’m not as naive as I was before the drought. There are no repeat performances, no instant replays, but I tend to think I write better stuff during seasons with rain. Finding objectivity as I put the next collection together from mostly the dry years may tell, given enough perspective. Not having that perspective, the collection is shelved for the moment… unless it really rains.


  2. I/we have faith.


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