Random Acts of Poetry

Random Acts of Poetry

Third Eye

I look at the trees,
see them clothed in winter sticks,
but also the blaze of fall,
the glut of summer,
spring’s threadbare coat.

I see the house,
each shingle a molecule,
the timbers in phantom trees,
the windows blowing
in the sands of Pangea.

I watch this property
eaten by spectral flames,
the frame a glowing skeleton,
ashes at the end
of every twisting path.