December Ending

Weaving ancient dreams
A tapestry of mysteries
Old year going, fading out
A fire dying with a sigh
Circle of snow and darkest night
The trees born dead
Do moss and mushrooms feed
Tell the forest bell to ring in
New from old and life from decay
Cover your shivering bones
In a shawl of budding ash tree
Walk the leaf-paths
Down to brittle old birches
Up through dead-born young oak
Pass the beeches, touch the pines
Count down the year-rings to tomorrow
Until the day fades into mist

Writing has its Way

Trying to write a story
sentences turning into poetry
one line of prose
six of gibbering in metaphors
five phrases with question marks
next line
next line
hitting space and backspace
rambling about stars
changing language, shifting gear
words have their own will
writing has its way
rambling from lane to lane
weaving between rhythms
gaps in mind turning to imagery
can’t stop the alternation
this won’t ever be a book.