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a thought came
twirling down
from a graying November tree,
one of the last to fall,
announcing,
'look at all my crusts of death,
and answer me.
--bipeds of clay,
do you doubt when
howling winds, ice, and snow
embalm
our root to rock,
that Spring will squeeze
out of us
baby buds again?
for each change
the wintertime will become warm,
the dark will lift,
the lawns will need a...
Sunday 21st March 2021 8:38 pm
Abandoned
Newspaper delivered remains undisturbed
Samson's silent silver chain
Empty blue plastic bowl
Old John last seen
Being taken, emergency ambulance
His loyal dog waits.
Wednesday 22nd July 2020 10:08 am
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