Outside the wind chimes
plead, usually placid
notes wrenching, piercing.
Outside the wind chimes
plead, usually placid
notes wrenching, piercing.
Sodden ground swampy
a mash of leaves, plants, flowers
once distinct, now soup.
Summer is golden
butterscotch, January
skim milk, thin weak pale.
Forgotten summer
umbrella aged by winter’s
wig of heavy snow.
What naiad dances
in your pulsing, surging heart,
calling me to her?
Tightly furled like clenched
fists, tentative red-tipped buds
sway on bare branches.
Like green periscopes
tiny shoots peer from muddy
beds searching for sun.