the wind shook the trees by their leaves
till the woods echoed with the roar—
a dry, cry of friction so low
it vibrated through my heels
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Four Lines
out secondhand shopping we found
a half-off goodwill then final
day estate sale—we went home well
pleased with just-right finds and dear friends
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Mac is an extra large Lab who
horizontal spreads a yard all ways—
imagine a man-sized hallway,
a dog, and painstaking steps through
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Mackie was a pup alone tossed
beside the river—on seeing
my car he scratched at the door then
climbed in to sleep on my lap
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Four Lines
my brave brave Mac loves all water
but a bath—yet while I bathe
he stands sentry just behind the door
poised to fight killer soap
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Little Thumbs Little Thumbs our orange
Twitter-bird absurdly obsessed
with having the last word—possessed
at dawn by “I should have said” words
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a rhyme a rhyme the poet cried
oh oh woe the thesaurus died
I’m lost lost left two syllables
deep just four iambic feet wide
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prodded by memory I stand
transfixed on an old stomping ground—
sixty years later my feet still
recognize this sidewalk’s odd tilt
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how many times must a poet
rhyme oranges by changing mid-use
to bananas only to find
no fruit except dried sultanas
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a hot day in early autumn
rustles glum among the dry leaves
held hostage by the wheezy squeaks
of a dawdling eastern phoebe
