The morning sun sphere pours
a warm circle where the briar thorn
caught the top of my hand.
Mountain meadow of my wedding,
the awe and dread
of love in indifference, I would be nothing
but this bliss and intrusion
as I watched an osprey soar the gorge below.
Thunderhead on the ridge, the sea advancing.
Wind on the water on the rocks,
the rain on leaves, a crystal glass sound,
the expanse of sky fills a fox skull
like a cave in this karst land.
One last stand of old growth pine
rings a distant hill
the lightning burnt.
lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Least Bittern Books published his second collection, Under the Mountain Born.