House on the Hill

All that’s left is a mound of detritus— 
Barely enough to remind us it stood 
Tall and strong as the family that held

 
Sway over it, a domain now infested 
By burrowing creatures of the night— 
Let’s say blind earthworms with feelers

 
Breathing through dank skins, sensing 
Their way through the dark by gauging 
Changes in the ever-changing light. 

Watchtower

That black 

Dog that stands 
For Death has 

Two gray marks 
Round its red 

Eyes that keep 
Watch for any signs

Of life just like yours. 

Fish out of Water

Where you find out when 

The sea is only so 
Deep as the air 

You breathe in. 

In the Long Run

It makes no difference where 
You were going when you were 
Turning left or right 
Or going straight ahead— 

Something tells me 
That was where 
You were going when 
You had no choice but to go 

Short of stopping dead in your tracks, 
Which makes all the difference, 
Should one wish to know. 

Aeolian

of fig leaves under 
limbs swept bare— 

a rotting 

bed the fickle 
wind left 

there.