A Small Place in Heaven

—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA

UP TOO EARLY



This morning the trees


Were all growing upside down.



I thought it was my 


Imagination,



But it was the trees.


They got it sorted out



By 5:30 AM so hardly


Anyone noticed.



NOVEMBER



The sun keeps messing about


With the leaves of the oaks


Around the garden.  The trees


Flutter their leaves, birds preening.



I have left some of the sunflowers standing


In the garden to entertain the birds,


The field mice.  To let the winds tickle


The faces of the nodding flower heads.


Something simple, I tell myself.



The way rain keeps changing its name.


The sun becomes preoccupied


With some clouds and starts making


Promises that the day will get better,


Warmer.  The last marigold flowers using


Everything they have to keep from 


Becoming memories.  The shortened days


Competing to end the season.



A RED LION



It looks like a lock


But it is a dance.



Chimes undone


By color.


Moons of them


Sliding down a


Greasy slope.



The gates tremble.


One can hear the sea


But it is too dark

To see the water,

The complaining waves.



A red lion suddenly
Lost near our door.

A SEARCH



We go down to the rooms


Where the seasons wait,


Combing their trees


And plague moons.



Our trousers damp


To the knees.  Blood


Once again.  None of


This clothing will


Ever fit us after this.



We gather on the top


Of the hill.  We will stay 


Here until we have


Learned to howl.


We will find a small


Place in heaven.

THE STONE GNOMES



No longer just a couple


Of stone gnomes


Posed with stone dreams.



There are households


In the late part of Autumn.


We walk toward the sunset.



The car is waiting


Just after a copse of old trees.


No one lives here any longer.



No one wants magic


Like this any longer.



On many evenings


The windows glowed with


Golden light and the most


Beautiful of music rose


From the old house.



There were now only hooded


Men, ‘Genii Cucullati’.


They wore short cloaks


With hoods.  So they


Were invisible.



Standing on the stone bridge


Over the creek, the water


Did sound like voices


Telling tales of something…


Earth spirits, brownies.



We have all the stories.


You never should have come here. 

AWAKENING IN THE NIGHT



A trance of buildings 


Suckled in stone, made mostly


In fog and the detritus of yet another


Year spread across this field of mud,

Then pulled toward the end of the year,


Sometimes nearly blind, sometimes


So full of the smallest of details.


One could be left on the edge of a small


Village, standing just inside an open door


Looking out at the rain, believing it is the self.



For a moment, we own the shadows,


A pine tree across hard granite, a leaf


Shadow reflected upon a puddle of bright 


Water.  A lightning flash in a momentary


Quiet.  A crow sitting on a fence post


Surrounded by the last of the morning glories.



The year begs to come to a close.  


Its trees are leafless.  I can hear a breathing


Beneath this November moon, such a cold


Sphere, it could be perfect beauty.



I realize it is my own breath.


And whose world is this, friend?


We have been here before?


Long, long ago?

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

PLAN



And now that I am 72


I’ll try to find out


What to do.


______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner, who celebrated his birthday last week.