These are recent works that are still coming to fruition. They hover beyond the fathomable; in the outer reaches of mind beyond and outside of words. And yet there can be words that help to formulate their origins. In poetry, like painting, one can attempt an explanation of that which does not easily cross the boundary between experience and explanation. Perhaps through art there can exist a bridge. A link to something lost yet hovering just there; the thing unsaid that is still blossoming along the periphery. Perhaps it grows more vivid with every attempt at failed description. Here there is more to articulate and more to be said. More paintings are being born and crafted.

<sup>Song of the Birches


The birches sang of longing

As the way I held to the path

grew false, intangible

In its dreamlike coating


Time became corrupted

the pace of my steps

wove the pathway outward

Into certainty


When I left the forest

I kept only the eyes watching

And the song I sang back

As reality was strung more vivid,

More fantastic


A seasonless winter

In the webbing of mind</sup>

<sup>How I Remember It


The forest pulled  inward

To funnel my senses

Across parallel experiences

Into a column of attention


It held me entranced

A vortex of heightened perception

To stand witness

As time became corrupted, trivial


My previous life awash

With a false overlay

As the way I held to the path

Grew intangible


And the pace of my steps

Wove a new future outward

Into unyielding certainty

A voice, blue as open sky


Not a whisper,

Nor command, but a well spring

The future is known

Held there


In the reaching tapestry

In the peeling bark

In the ancient moss

I am not watched nor watching


I participate

In my stillness

Every sense equal


I walk away

I walk toward

I walk back


Home</sup>