Traveling Alone at Dusk

Sandy patterns ripple to the distance
And merge into the dimming light
Across the remote fading horizon.
The wind whistles a soft note
And swirls a bit of fine dust
That meanders over the barren landscape.
The air is dead still now,
And orange skies hang down
Over deep black shadows
That bleed into the coming night.

Haiku

A blooming tulip
Opens toward the clear sky
And hovering bees

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Mayflies sit in rest
On the water's calm surface
Broken by a trout

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The full moon shines light
Down over rolling ripples
Of the flat black lake

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The sun hangs lower
Over the browning corn field
A tractor cuts through

The Dingy Room

He sits in the dingy room. Only flickering fluorescent lights
surround his shuddering figure. He clutches his head in

his arms and rocks in frantic rhythm to murmurs of apologies
and curses. The greasy hairs that his hands pull out

offer no comfort. His eyes are red and raw from constant rubbing
at flesh long since dried of insufficient tears. Snot, though, still pours

from his nostrils and encrusts the shirt sleeve used in vain
effort to stop the flow. The few token tissues he began with mix

with empty microwaveable meals in the pile of trash. The room fills
with the mustiness of dirty clothes and a week without a shower. The smell

lingers, trapped by the dusty blinds; they have not been touched
for days. He recoils alert to the shattered silence of the phone

that he watches ring but does not answer. This interruption reveals
a glimpse of his salty, unshaven face before his head sags

forward into coarse palms. With each breath he quivers inside
the monotonous hum of the yellow lights perched above him.

A tone informs him of a new message, but his fetal body curls away.

Snow Day

Hemlock branches bow to the ground
A mound of white replaces the picnic table
Our dogs, chest deep in snow
Prance over each other, while
In white socks, green plaid flannel pants,
And a red shrunken soccer t-shirt,
I blow on hot chocolate, the fluff bobs
As I lean the chair on the beige linoleum floor
Away from the worn brown table.
Fresh cookies dance from the oven,
Where mom stands scolding my recline,
And flirt with the smoke of the wood stove,
From logs tossed by dad into the fire.
My brother trudges after the barking dogs
Snow up to his waist, he woofs back.
Black pants, red jacket, hat secured, I explore.
The snow grabs my legs to the knees
Trees creak and groan under fresh weight
Wind drifts through the empty forest
In the distance, a plow rumbles on.