a few more thoughts

cicada husks
cling to an oak –
her empty words

--

spring puddle –
the small girl
curtsies to herself

--

a few haiku

dawn reflections–
a trout's rise
moves the mountain

--

roadside cafe–
the crows take lunch
out back

--

waning moon . . .
the cricket's chirr lost
in a spider web

The Stoop

This is a poem I've been working on for a year or more - started when caught up in a measure of depression and reflecting on how I might have ended up, had it not been for divine intervention.

He was an elderly man, clothed in desolation,
a gray man fading into the stoop on which he reclined,
as if he were already turning to dust, disintegrating.
He coughed, and coughed again the rasp of an ailing
man, a rattle vibrating from the fathoms within,
and he fumbled for his pack of cigarettes
as if to reaffirm his intention of dying should his
bottle of cheap wine not propel him into oblivion. He
was muttering, muttering secrets to himself, or of himself,
or perhaps proverbs to show someone, anyone,
how enlightened he could be there on the gray stoop
as dust and the remainder of his life swirled about him.

fly at the window

A fly intently drills
at the picture window,
seeing the possibilities beyond
but cannot reach them.
The older I become the more
I feel like that miserable fly
at an impossible window.

spring offerings

a book reread
. . . yesterday's rain
now today's

--

scent of spring
between her breasts
. . . lilacs opening

--

early spring
longing for the chirr
of those damn crickets

lavender nights

The wind carries magic
this spring morning,
scent of lilacs, memories
of golden days and
lavender nights with you.
How long ago it's been-
the depth of innocence,
of youthful lust, that strand
of something bright, clear,
sweet coursing through me
with each thought of you.
Closing my eyes you can be
beside me, warm, vibrant,
and then, just as easily, faded,
like the promise of my life.

April sun

sunning ourselves–

a fox squirrel

and my mood