Author Archives: jonwolston

Invisible clouds,                                                                                                                                        their itinerant shadings                                                                                                                           roaming peak to peak                                                                                                                        along Sandwich Range, etch a burnished fall chorus                                                                                                                   of moaning tree fronds, first on Rattlesnake,                                                                                                                                 later silhouetting shore pines                         … Continue reading →

x ept 2 myself x ept 0 listening x ept I am.

The doorbell’s ringing.                                                                           … Continue reading →

Seed pods draped in a yellow glen,                                                                                                       motionless in essence,                                                                                                                             an odd autumnal chartreuse,                                                                                                                 swim in the breeze for a moment,                                                                                                         silhouetted by ecru lichen,                                                                                                                    then settle down to wait out                                                                                                                   my disarray, hovering,                                                                                                                        giving … Continue reading →

Putt-putts in slo-mo.                                                                                                                                No more land line. Loons calling.                                                                                                          The red sun rolls south.

As puppies reach                                                                                                                                       eight weeks of age,                                                                                                                                    they grow expert                                                                                                                                        at rattling cage. They snarl and fight                                                                                                                                 and whine and bark,                                                                                                                                 to cuddle them                                                                                                                                           seems off the mark. Soon earnest folks                                                                                                                                     line up to buy,                                                                                                                                            pay through the nose                                                                                                                                I … Continue reading →

How subtle of that Indian surgeon from Indiana on the Rhine in December not only to dissect the occult humor lurking in my e-mail address but also to jostle me in the common room with a capacious bear hug within … Continue reading →

Red raspberries served up                                                                                                                      on angel food cake soaking in cassis                                                           … Continue reading →

Three black oaks silent.                                                                                                                           White light snakes across the lake,                                                                                                       accosting my soul.

Dice-K on target, twirling six and two-thirds innings of huge two-hit ball.