Where the Clouds are Made

We had moved to

a place - I have 

since come to know as -

where the clouds

are made.

It is across these

open fields and

tree-lined knolls

that you can feel

the drafts moving

swiftly over and 

carrying invisibly

upward the droplets 

to one another.

Building themselves

glorious landscapes

from which we -

given only hope and

dreams and wondering if's -

from which we

find

simple brief respites

from what is truly

lugubrious in our days.

Pandemic II

I found a

leaf today;

sodden full

with rain.

Silently sitting

still on the 

loamy earth -

waiting its turn

to become dirt - 

below the

mountain laurel.

Sodden full;

silently sitting.

A leaf.

Exquisite.

Three Haiku

One

Early morning sunlight

scatters itself through the tree tops and limbs;

the fluttering leaf sings in the wind.

Two

Sometimes,

when the wind blows past my window

the rattling branch sounds like yesterday.

Three

The stillness between the raindrops

soaks into my heart.

I am drenched.

Ciao!

TJM+

image from: http://bit.ly/cYzhHY

Hissing Drops

The ground -

it
is so dry -

you can almost
hear a hissing
as the drops
of rain

touch the face
of the earth.

The heat
comes up
off of the
surface

just about
dissolving
the rain

as it touches down.

Spattering
and hissing,
this rain

is long overdue.

Like the
opening of a flower
you have long
awaited

these drops
of moisture -

emancipating the
world from heat -

clearly open the
heart.

Cricket Space

There is a space
on the other side
of the lake;

a space where
a cricket can
crawl between
the rock and the
moss that is leaning

up against
the tree.

A space just
small enough
to hide
from the wind
and the rain that
drives itself
against

the calm.

I shall find

THAT space.

There I shall
hunker down
and listen
for the sound of
the growing roots

and the seeping
rain

and the
sound
of brittle leaves
blowing over
the rocks.

It is quiet there.
And calm;

did I say calm?

Ciao!

TJM+

The Tears the Dark Sky Cried

The rain falls heavy
on the ground
around our home,

carving rivulets
down to the lake,
down to the stream
just below.

I have heard
the tears
the dark sky cried
all night

breaking into the snow,
taking ice
from the roofs
and landing in
puddle after puddle
a colding mud.

The wind has now come
to set the tears
on edge,

and I am left
warm inside
carving words
from the air

and sipping coffee
as the day
and my rest
grow old.

___


Ciao!

+Tom