Blind

Blind, cannot see a thing and maybe a sloth.

Lines Empty

Hide and seek with the horizon gazing off until June. Peeking around the corner of the New Year looking for the rudiments of life. Wrapped in a brown grocery bag cut to conform and unforgiving for exposed advertisements. Tinsel left in the bottom of a extra rooms closet bows smashed under the weight of debris.
January brings more cold from the previous years start of winter. The tree stands in the living area boxes awaiting its storage, The end of year celebration has now given way to the Blank Year, lines empty. New carpet smell gone by March replaced by the new inhabitants of the carpet.

Cold Wind

Steely gray clouds and a vengeful North wind meet you around a building's north-west corner. You internalize a shiver mutter some damning remark and stare the extremes down. The temperature hovering in the 30's poses no real threat but you zip more to appease your ego. No sun at 8:30 AM but the day can still have recklessness. At this point in the season of deep fall I have no dream of the pit or lawn furniture just one cold foot threatening to over-take the other one.

Transition

The feast of thanksgiving is set to collide with another week. Now we are hurled facing down winter's solstice and the final stretch towards 365. What about revelry and deep spells thought by the fire or over-cast skies? What will be reckoned by these moments?

The dogs huddle in the round and scraps break this circle from time to time. The cat takes the bed and the solace with the occasional treat not allowed. Crunchy steps lead down the lane with the trees naked as a new born. The sun now pale and clouds that have set sail seem moored to space and time.

The children sing songs to commemorate the passing of seasons. Some notes fall sharp but natural and the flat brightens the ridge - once of shadows. They crave the joy they crave the smells and the life. There is a huddle in the master's bed and warmth held neath the covers. They shriek away from the night's cold air that acts as gravity.

Smoker - Denver Harbor

it was once a neighborhood you would watch from the safety of your neighborhood. Once a place where children could run back alleys at night. Parents at work and children at home with the lock unrealised. Ship's horns heard from the Port of Houston. Port Channels were a bike ride away and packing imagery fueling dreams. Hobos in tents along channel coastline with no speculation on children who ran by.
God channeled through uncommon people who did not have perfect wardrobes, haircuts,upbringing and republican affiliations. One damn good TV set and a worn kitchen floor and souls that knew possibility was a possibility. Puffy cotton clouds could be heavenly homes,viking ships and birds from a childs view in the backseat of the Ford. Loves kisses were deep passionate moments when you were as safe there as in your mother's arms.