Purpose

The wind comes in the fall
with purpose --

to break 
          the brown,
dislodge
          the dead,
throw down.
Wind
Cold
Gutters the gold.
Santa Anas whip 
to strip limbs bare--
barren branches left to cope
in winter wait 
for blossoms of hope.





Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2014. Use with permission only.
Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122.
Follow on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/HopeNote

Familiar

From familiar hills You come--
Brushing nostalgic slopes, 
Once green velvet, now dormant and dry.

You come 
Quiet like the wind
Radiant, 
Encircling,
Slicing through childhood canyons
Treading sacred paths
Scattering flowers
Moving clouds
Tipping the light out of your eyes.
You come--
Familiar,
Like home.



Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2014. Use with permission only. Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122
Follow on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/HopeNote