Pilgrimage: Nearing the End: Stillness

last night''s deep stillness

opened a froth of movement 

shoppers drinkers of tea 

and me I walk 

past windows of books and tea towels 

smile at the young man on a skateboard 

and rush into Cole Coffee

the sacramental espresso

awaits us like a dream

Pilgrimage:: Almost There: Sixty Miles Per Hour

after last night's wind
pear and liquid amber trees
prostrate in the streets
fallen stripped and now dying
surrounded by yellow tape
and men wielding leaf blowers
in the morning breeze

Pilgrimage: The Mean

a city like Goldilocks
where walkers and bicyclists
share the streets with drivers
who seem frantic within their sealed
enclosures like tombs on wheels
while I with hands in pockets
stroll to greet my lover at the
coffee shop we visit
every day we watch the Liquid Ambers
pursue the change of seasons
green to red to gold
then bare except for spiny seed pods
before the early Spring
it's Autumn now although the weather doesn't know it
and everything
everything
is just right

Drought

lemon verbena leaves
fragrant in the best of times
now hang limp and dry
beneath the golden Japanese maple
I haven't watered in weeks
counting on the late Autumn
rain that has not fallen
day after day of gentle warm weather
greeted by those who worship
Apollo unaware that he will force you to abandon your wild dreams
drain the wine from the flasks
and leave you tossing on your bed
unwashed and thirsting for
one sparkling shard of ice

Discarded Chair, any week, every pilgrim

I might have led a previous life
rested in this chair, stripping lavender
of its tiny spikes, pressing scent into wee bites of
muslim sachet pillows. 

I might have waited on the rain. I recognize the shape.
The wear.

Pilgrimage: Week 49: Walking By

I pass two bookstores as I walk

home confronted by temptation

I understand that there is an industry

artists and writers working hard

to overcome

my empty pockets

my filled shelves