C.D. Sinex

We watch the day fade slowly into night,
in silence standing by this open gate.
Afraid, as if to speak would chase the light.
I have to go; you know it's getting late.
...

Carried in,
in the dead of night,
like some smuggler's load.
Lights dimmed, the curtains drawn:
...

for six years
it was the world

the perfect venue
...

Everything we thought we understood,
somehow vanished right before our eyes.
Gone in an instant, the bad, the good…
everything. We thought we understood
...

Autumn equinox.
The hills are nearly silent—
A hermit-thrush calls.
...

The rebirth of spring—
tulips at my father's grave
obscure the death date
...

Cherries in full bloom.
Petals falling one by one.
No time to wither.
Feelings have flittered away.
...

...

Ice cream on green cones—
white hydrangeas in full bloom
cool the summer day
...

Cutting through dense woods
well past the logging road's end—
Abandoned homesteads
...

Our breaths
are soft white haze
in winter's frozen air.
You lean in close- your warm words touch
...

A dense winter fog.
The road playing hide-and-seek.
The air— white as snow.
Your car warming in my drive.
...

tucked away
in some recess
of my brain
...

Healing the cracks enlivens the clay
as broken memories are made whole
again. Inlaid gold, the craftsman's way,
healing. The cracks enliven the clay,
...

She ponders this plight of beauty and pride,
her garden lies ravaged by killer frost.
The struggles of summer now brown and dried,
she ponders. This plight of beauty and pride,
...

Winter is the quiet time, when few venture back to see me. Sometimes on Sundays, cross-country skiers happen by. Wow, you live here? What do you do for …? I shush them; listen, the jays are fighting.
Snowshoe hares make a daily pilgrimage searching for my garden, now buried deep beneath the snow. Nothing for you here, I whisper. The berries have been picked and turned to jam, which I will not share.

A week's wood to split:
...

Logs in the river will float to the mill.
Once tall proud timbers adrift to their fate.
Sawyers are sleeping; their saws are all still.
At morning's first light, they'll open the gate.
...

Looking
out on the lake.
Spring brings anxious men in
boats— winter's serene quiet now
...

Blood lines
drawn down my arm.
Linked by a timeless rite—
spring finds me pruning roses bare-
...

Seeing things for the very first time,
standing in silence, he waits for eve-
ning. He lacks the words to wax sublime,
seeing things. For the very first time,
...