Seasons

The rotation of a sphere on its axis,
Nudged to tiny oscillations

Spins life's fine thread; birth and death
In four revolving seasons

Hard-husked snow and weeping ice
Pin-sharp purple mornings

Spiced green buds on knowing limbs
The nagging lust of dawn

Wheat fields blown in rolling waves
Summer's glorious furnace

Wool-wrapped ambles in golden parks
A pause to renew our learning

This single ripple in the cosmic pond
Brings nature's tidal sigh

We find our dreams washed therein
And count turns until we die

The submariner

The submariner
Glides deep and cold
Frozen at the helm
Amphetamine stare
Feeling his way by
Long, dead pings

Stars die tonight
As slick, sick seas
Swallow the moon
He rides far below
Isolation melting
Slow and silent

Now fat, dirty heat
Sweat, thick as tears,
Sweetens his lips
He licks them, fully,
In feral anticipation
And begins to rise

Thirty-something

Fear stands beside me
Whispering shot doves,
Unborn children, and
Seven-to-forty in my ear

He breathes slow death,
Dripping pitiful, plastic
Desires in deadly globs,
Blanketing my poor worries

I ask nor offer choice;
Place blank bullets in
His overloaded gun and
Cringe, ugly, as he fires