a gravel voice dirty hands fall and winter in his hair fire eyes looking for a curious glance as he points up signaling the end, suggesting everyone line up under stars and sun as arrows target the weights and measures unlocking the door within you
The trees see everything observing the hunter and the prey the fox pauses, his nose sensing the air then presses on as a rabbit holds court in silence the ground is moist, below the surface winter retains its hold twigs lay scattered from icy winds and leaves carpet the moss providing protection … More ALL SEEING
A wedge or orange waits for morning fingers a black cat at the screen door; a pinch of salt over the shoulder same radio songs weather changes clouds always appear last patch of snow in the shaded corner of the shed a few buds up high on trees thrive where sunlight … More WINTER FADES
I have roads in my pockets. Curves and straightaways own a piece of my steps, as I never look back over a thunderstorm wet shoulder; hats have a way of getting in my way. I’ll find a coat for winter and shorts for summer. I found a pair of sneakers in Phoenix and some … More PASSING BY
It’s a slow step into cold air; the season twists out a new face. A cat meows at a half moon. Heaven hears the barking of angry dogs. Strands of mist stretch from street lights. Whispers rise from the alley. Window dressings slumber. Libraries welcome closing hours. Rain reduces the burden of clouds. Dead winter … More A LINE DRAWN
He wore a dark herringbone wool shirt. Ivory buttons were the stepping stones holding his two halves together. Strength and honesty were the bare knuckles of his core. His eyes are the password for those to enter. Men wearing winter coats and hats shuffle forward. Downcast, they hold respect for their place. The food and … More LINE UP
IT’S COMING There’s a change developing without permission. It alters life and space. Oceans, sky, and rivers all submit to the oncoming of seasons. Summer is the briefest of children, Fading in the infancy of its beginning. Warm air and onshore breezes tease us between showers. Fall changes green into orange … More IT’S COMING
It was a low tide. The aroma was of wet sand and seaweed. The rocks lay brazenly exposed, their sides speckled with barnacles. The water produced a ripple of waves; a motion of silence. A cellophane sky, yellow and pale white, spread thin over the horizon, appearing as a luxury of violence, like strangers … More FINGERPRINTS
Roger Singer 