Hills like cut paper
black against tissue blue skies.
Through poked holes, stars shine.
Driving home at sunset
3
Hills like cut paper
black against tissue blue skies.
Through poked holes, stars shine.
posted to my Twitter account
Project due and I * like the late adopter I * am, haven’t finished.
Hats, gloves, put away
in optimism return
for winter’s last gasp.
Bergamot infused
leaves unfurl comfort. Problems
dissipate like steam.
From an estate sale –
pendulum clock. Westminster
chimes now count my days.
Emily Bronte * labored quietly but I * scream “Here are my words!”
In the skyscraper
canyons, light outlines moving
shapes sipping Starbucks.
a dilemma of
riches in tiny topaz
the art of language
Just over five months
This one four hundred fifty
Art or wasted time?
A haiku a day?
Not quite. Some days the tap runs,
some days it’s bone dry.