I was dreaming, lulled to sleep by a 90° day, and I awoke to a falling leaf.

November is on the horizon and where have I been?

My compass spins; true North always pointing to Carol

Oh well, I'll pick up my pack, grab my walking stick and carry on.

Top 10 reasons I have been silent on Xanga

1. Be very very quiet, I'm hunting wabbitts.
2. Thought prose would improve through abstinence.
3. Waiting for the Iraq war to be over ... given up on that.
4. Massachusettes has found a way to tax blogs; silence was my tea party.
5. Waiting for a political solution ... given up on that too.
6. Shhh, the NSA is listening - good, f@#$ em!
7. Lost my keys ... all of them; car, house and of course keyboard.
8. Xanga blocked at work; today the domain controller is down and I'm free.  (Domain Controller - now there's a phrase someone can riff on)
9. If I had ideas I could finish this list now couldn't I?
10. ... and the top ten reason I was silent -> 

.... well well.  It seems this last one is blank for you to fill in.

Paint a picture of heat waving,

searing
           
    Sun X-ray blue,

a reflection,
melting cars shimmering on asphalt.

A pair of beach chairs, umbrellas

puddle shade
around their shoulders.

The tide intrudes
rising to meet them,

hands languishing

merg; witness
the surge old as time.

The sea breeze kisses them gently,
the tide ebbs,
                                in its wake the stuff of life.

She turns to him and smiles.

http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/hiatus

'nuf said

The river, Merrimac, rages at my door

and she is beautiful in her hurry, in her magnificence.
We have crouched too long at her side and pale when
she rises and spreads her skirts over her domain, brown
and green, trailing trees floating behind like dry
leaves in an autumn whirlwind.

Today a Great Blue Heron stood at the dead log
on the edge of our garden; tall and straight with an eye
full of old knowledge, feet deep in it, quick snatch of
a minnow behind our primrose; he floats on wide wings
of water simply knowing this is as it always will be.    

   The old girl stared at me

With dark sad eyes, black as forever

Over the past couple of hours a lot of rebarbative, ulcerated and embittered
people had been working hard at bedding their resentments down in
sensory-deprivation tanks full of alcohol.
-- Will Self, The Sweet Smell of Psychosis

And you know I'm order this a.s.a.p!

RF

A chilly spring walk
takes me to a quiet pool, undisturbed, waiting
for the summer heat to lift the old leaves;
raise the dead back to their hanging places,
arms spread wide - we'll dine under the shade
of their smiling shadow.

... and I stand up and look again ...

I have been fortunate enough to see the mountain
from the pond by the white birch.

Roads never work - they never
take you there - we are here already.

Mindful the blacktop, the straight
hot bakelite yellow lines
reclining under an fervid blue sky,
a pair of skid marks slither toward
the tail end of the car and a vague
memory of being at the other end.

The reverse shadow of light
lingering,
    lilting,
        dripping
off of your fingers and your smile
presses in like late breaking news

scrolling alert along the bottom
of my spine, without a pause
for a breath the talking head says
I love you,

film at eleven.