my calendar has no recollection
when this pit lodged itself within
unassuming, dry and filled
with the sap of hope

drought-stricken save for random
vulgar sprinkles, the receptive terra had been
lost or incognito..its surface cracked
and curling toward the heat

months don’t remember
such things as when
there was a slight shift
in the weather..it was not forecast

a germination of sorts
a gentle and furtive hatching.
not a sound was made
just a slight push at the heart

seasons don’t know that
they could be called Winter
if the yearning is to be Spring
then that desire speeds unchecked

the robust leaves spread
playing games in my stomach
scents become richer, more vivid
the sprouts tangle linguistics

my timepiece did not send
an alarm or reminder
intervals seem trivial or futile
the hours direct north, left, down, forward

these roots took firm hold
feeding on soil that learned fertility
they caress the veins with music
and push the blooms through thick skin

the elements were not waiting
there was a peculiar ray of sun
my lips parted sanguine
and the blossom sang its wellspring

© Tom Watters  1/4/07

we suffer the sin
of our first breath
gasping it through
tears of new knowledge

of innocence
sent on a path
away from our
soft home and
soft heart

off to a world
that teaches us
the skill of forgetting
the family-value of fear
and the lust of war

I walk down the
middle of the street in
the small morning hours
no traffic to impede my
star-gazing wonder

“stand behind the yellow line”
is worn into the concrete below
one side continues down this path
the other lawless

in this timid night shroud
I can’t help but stare
at that yellow line
as I begin
to grow
back down.

© Tom Watters  12/14/06

casualty
and
effect

ask me about the surcharge
again
as I continue
pay the toll

do wonder why I continue
to pay for a road that
will never be paved
never a brick
to be laid

the devil of desire
offers nothing
demands everything
and delays
all flights through to
nirvana

cause
and
effective

© Tom Watters  12/1/06

under a tall sky
fed full
of stars and ink
the only word
that the light allows
my eyes to focus on

now

this cool desert air hisses
names and
uncommon grace
mesquite and creosote
break my trance as if I were
breathing it in through my nostrils
or was it my fingertips?

now

senses speaking languages
that they hadn’t been taught
and yet they orchestrate as if
it were second nature
the ebony sky is
bright as halogen ignited

now

the sword I have
chosen to fall upon
sends me racing down
the rabbit hole
no memories to compete with…
the easiest smile
warm surf laps its
soft breath

now

© Tom Watters  11/27/06