The Garden of the Seasons: The Winter King Is in the Skies

 

Slipping By Unnoticed

All the little roofs

All the quiet worlds 

beneath

the fading of the night

All the magic taking place 

overhead

Someone is drawing on 

the heavens

with the paintbox 

of the sun

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's Further

The clock of the seasons 

winds down 

cray-pas, watercolors, pastels, 

pencils with 

those liquid-like paints

We groundlings 

can manage a season 

without color

because the color is in the sky

 First Comes the Gold

Do not ask 'what color 

is the sky?'

It is the color 

it chooses to be

when the sun slices 

its rays so thin, 

the colors slide into view

Those who are more 

accustomed to seeing 

find a place as well 

on the dance cards 

of time

twilight's winter fashions

the unsung songs 

the dances of the animal 

masks, the brilliance 

of lost sunsets

escaping the prison house 

of transitory beasts

Charcoal Blue

Our city

somebody's city

city of mineral kings

abstractions made stone

The birds have fled

the lines are sharp

the sky is smoke

the music gray

The water swallows 

the light

breathes a long story 

in a hidden tongue

 Moving Parts

That someone, 

that invisible hand

who deals out of sight 

of earthlings

to keep things moving

whose sheep are 

the gray ships 

of evening

seamlessly, silently

going somewhere

when there is no "where"

we'll ever see

Terrified

Nothing stays put here

The ineffable is eff-ing

How dull is our light

How certain the dark hands

that wash their fingers 

in our humble water

and conduct their shadows 

across the highways 

we will never see

This Plant 

Has never blossomed

so much white or shown 

such ribs

It births its multitudes

in a nursery of snow

Party Lights

Whatever's going on 

below

a festival of light 

and color

dances, songs, or simply 

too much electronics

It's only a room, a cellar

upstairs the giants are 

singing

Do Not Believe

Everything you hear

Ah, those pale and flimsy 

cottony briefs

wave in a sea of blue

But fires burn on 

a distant continent

an ocean, maybe

with a self-consuming love