Beneath a gray sky,
forsythias everywhere,
drenched in soft drizzle-
covering the green ground
in flashes of yellow.

Floating everywhere
drenched in steady drizzle,
forsythias-
flashes of spring yellow
still beneath a gray sky.

some days just fade into nothing . . .
. . . and back again.
Another year marked by Bradford Pear blossoms
bursting into impatient fullness,
arriving too soon year after year.
One last blast of winter
they're torn from tender stems.
Mixed with wet snowflakes.
Who can tell the difference.

So cold,
the antique china cups,
until you fill them
with hot midday coffee;
and your welcoming smile.

Somehow,
it's always slightly off,
morning coffee-
too weak or too bitter
when brewed for one.

Barely morning,
wide awake, not dreaming.
The silent night rages black,
. . . and this blank page leers back,
in empty shades of white.

( Read more... )

after the feast,
too soon to be awakened:
cawing crows.

moonset,
among sun-reddened clouds:
Thanksgiving morning.

( Read more... )

Amidst the gold
a lone maple leaf burnt red
marks passing time.