the book of poems
came tied up in pink string,
with a little white flower
nestled in the knot.
greater than
when my heart
shrinks with fear
that things are
beyond my control …
a poem for the times we find ourselves in
It was hot on the twelfth of July,
and the people all started to fry.
S.O.S.
the endurance, you know, was a good brave boat
and I hear the titanic was mighty nice
at breakfast
forgive me for breaking the silence,
but i was getting tired of the way
you were staring straight through me
and out the window toward the garden.
bedtime
fresh, crisp, light, cool—the
feeling of sleeping between
clean sheets in summer
tomatoes
first, delicate yellow blooms star
the fuzzy branches, hiding among the leaves that drive you wild with their fragrance.
barefoot haiku
barefoot in summer—
thorns. chiggers. sweetgum balls …
something blue
i never can remember what comes after
the path into the pines, whether
the trail loops back to its beginning
or winds even deeper into the woods.
honey yet to be
the bees are at the zinnias,
fuzzy bodies buzzing
among pink-freckled petals