furrowed field –
the farmer’s face
splits into a grin
spring puddles -
the rain
falling into itself
spring garden;
the scarecrow stuffed
with autumn straw
tilled ground –
the dry wood
of the hoe’s handle
outstretched arms –
the scarecrow
models his new duds
flame azaleas bloom
in the beds
springtime –
for the butterflies and bees,
the season of harvest
into another –
the chrysalis
cold morning –
the gritty scrape
of the hoe
the starless area
of the sky –
a looming mountain
a winter of deaths –
the spring lilies
smell funereal
folded wings –
all of a moth
the spider left
butterfly
on a rake’s handle –
perhaps, it’s dreaming
the clink of our gear,
no words between us
this cold mountain morning
the magnolia blossoms
discolor
in the cold May rain
roses cling
to the stone house –
our late neighbor
a dewy rose –
the papery wings
of a butterfly
like the dew –
spring evanesces
into summer
after the burial –
a day moon
rising
a sparrow alights –
the gate chain dropping
a chain of dew
near the hayfield fences,
bumblebees
visit the milk thistle
a brief shower –
plum petals float
in the fresh puddles
drop by drop, the opaque
becomes transparent
urban garden –
roses scale
the razor wire fence
flies buzz the dung;
monarchs dip
into the azaleas
thumps and patters
on my umbrella –
under the plums and out
plum petals,
bird droppings
on the garden buddha
the slightest waft
reveals their presence –
gardenias
the passing of spring –
my empty
sake cup
impatient
for the dewberries -
the redbirds and I
a day of plowing –
furrows crimp
our long shadows
silent labors –
a moth, a spider,
the yellow rose
its silent shape –
the bell’s shadow
on the garden wall
spring garden;
each year I look
more like the scarecrow
storm winds
roughen the lake,
stretch the willows eastward
roughen the lake,
stretch the willows eastward
dogwood blossoms -
last to
fade
in the twilight
spring day;
red wagon,
a child
pulling a child
spring planting -
the man atop a tractor
the man atop a tractor
loses
his cap
late
spring -
under
the green woods
roll
the Appalachian hills
four a.m. –
listening to my house
bicker with the rain
afternoon nap –
the rain's patter
through an open window
through an open window
winter’s withered brush
mauve-brown
in the sunset’s glow
winter ends –
here and there, dead leaves
still cling
dogwood blossoms –
last to fade
in the twilight
lingering –
the sunset’s glow
in a handful of fireflies
the bluebird –
a flurry of color
among the sepia hardwoods
winging home
on warmer winds –
Canada geese
a brief shower –
plum petals float
in the fresh puddles
end of winter –
small birds flit about
the sunlit grove
gone until autumn –
the steeple
amid the hardwoods
the waning night –
a bare limb breaks
the moon into pieces
a spring sun
has thawed out
the songbirds
dusting the brambles
like a late snow –
dewberry blossoms
April slips away . . .
down a scented
honeysuckle path
sporting
his spring blues –
the indigo bunting
it looks like . . . but, can’t be –
last autumn’s
orange butterfly
lush spring –
between showers,
sunlight silvers the leaves
oh, so delicately,
the moth settles
on a milk thistle bloom
dusk sinks into dark;
a lone firefly’s
jagged flight
midmorning;
deer vanish
in the hardwood shadows
the rains let up;
everywhere in the gorge,
the river’s roar
milk in the bowl
purple-tinged –
blackberry spring
along the fence,
a spring colt
races my automobile
pothole -
a patch of sky
on the wet street