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...

Read and leave comments (0)

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.

Read and leave comments (1)