Monday, September 19, 2016


spring woods;
a yellow leaf falls –
ah! a butterfly

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
of a burnt-out house 

 springtime –
for the butterflies and bees,
the season of harvest

dropping from one loneliness
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

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
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

a sparrow alights –
the gate chain dropping
a chain of dew

near the hayfield fences,
visit the milk thistle

a brief shower –
plum petals float
in the fresh puddles

spring thaw –
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 –

the passing of spring –
my empty
sake cup

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

                                                dogwood blossoms -
                                                               last to fade 
in the twilight 

spring day;
red wagon,
a child pulling a child

spring planting -
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

winter’s withered brush
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

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 

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

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