❦
Michael Douglas Jones
Art calls your name from across the room, then whispers certain secrets when you come in close.
Wednesday, May 3, 2023
Bennett's Creek
Thursday, March 30, 2023
Wintersea
Once, we worked the wintersea, along the coast of Chesapeake; we learned the rhythm of the days, and kept them through our years.
Eastern horizon quickening, lightening; sea of sun rising, readying, raising the mainsail of morning, as dawn’s winter wind roars like stevedores on the dock of this day. Swaying ship masts of high hill pines creak and caution, as icy hatch hinges slam and shudder, as flags snap and shiver. The crew of crows comes aboard from the valley, cawing commands; all is ready before the mast, this day may get under way. Day breaks cold against my face charting a northwest course; with the western moon over my left shoulder. I turn and face into this fine adventure.
~ Michael Douglas Jones
Thursday, March 23, 2023
Cover of Cottonwhite
East of Reich’s Ford, the slightest snowfall overnight, fresh cover of cottonwhite, and a clean page for the day's poetry.
Up and over the ridge, written on the paperwhite of fresh snow, the meandering graceful script of buck and doe.
~ Michael Douglas Jones
Parcel №16
Saturday, January 14, 2023
This Day
There is one moment, in the frosted hour before dawn, with the full moon melting, moving low, in the west behind the tall line of pines, with the fog façade on the Monocacy valley trees, before the crow caws the morning message, before obsculta in the deep silence is overwhelmed by the transient noise of aeroplanes and motorcars.
There, in that full circle surrounding, I can turn in any direction, take a moment, take a breath, and begin this day. That moment, when the fullness of nature nods knowingly, and wakes the world. That is my moment.
~Michael Douglas Jones
Parcel №15
...
Tuesday, October 11, 2022
Waiting
Saturday, August 6, 2022
Riding Home
Wednesday, July 6, 2022
Ostinato
After the blue flame and thunder of the eastward storms, in the valley branch, the water rolls, drip-rippling over stones, white foam rising; its rhythm repeats, repeats, repeats, as an ostinato of spring peepers, toads, and tree frogs rises, reaching redwings nesting in the cattails, and they too join that unseen symphony.
This refrain repeats, as this romance repeats, and becomes our song. This is our dance, again and again.