I
jagged ridges
fade to obscurity,
and so do I
II
one mountaintop
shines in the morning sun,
the rest in shade
III
sunrays slant
from clouds to mountains —
morning rips through

under jungle
creepers, trees, and moss
lost cities wait
one clean edge
of rough chiseled stone
peeks from mound
when we’re gone
something will remain
of us, and not…
Raising my gaze, the world at a distance is softer, its contours green, a luscious green, a green which recalls past Springs. The foreground is rough and rocky, littered with rocks, some dull and others wet and glistening. A creek burbles, I know not from whence it comes. Just as I can’t say who dragged in these smooth rocks and boulders.
i look up
and the world ahead
pulls me forth
I
flat waters
glide wide at the bend,
their might mute
II
boulders stacked
in precarious piles —
yet they stand
III
the palm trees
stand over stone ruins —
upright sentries
IV
a leaning tree
reaches its gnarled, bent trunk
to shade pilgrims
V
strange landscape —
rubble swept into piles
by what hand?
I
a winter moon
is seen clearly between
breath fog plumes
II
starry skies,
through the tent flap,
herald cold’s bite
III
cold slinks in
once sleep has taken hold,
settling in bone
IV
winter midnight —
sunlight, a distant memory,
or so it feels
V
how bright the moon
in the mid-winter sky —
yet, no heat
I
a breeze tousles branches
then, in stillness, red leaves
cascade downward
II
hawk and half-moon
in one blue, morning sky
then clouds come
III
pine tree tips
droop flaccidly over
the road
IV
the divine madman
sows havoc, showing neither
reason nor angst
V
too little water
kills the plant; too much water
kills the plant