May’s new leaves on short tethered stems
don’t blow in canopied rows like
their summertime selves but flicker
and quake in the cold breezy light
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Four Lines
I wish I were standing wind blown
shoes in one hand toes buried deep
lost in that distance of cool blue
sky and soft grey sea
Four Lines
have you noticed how the lowest
notes drawn from a cello always
soothe a worried soul just the same
as ocean waves against a shore
Four Lines
my Lab Mackie hates the meter
reader each month that vile scheming
electric checker trespasses
wearing postal blue
Four Lines
it’s May but the weather blows straight
from cold spiteful March provoking
the crabapple trees to mutter
harsh words to the wind
Four Lines
I watched a man in a mart halt
his cart transformed by memory
or anticipation purchase five
super soaker blasters
Four Lines
clouds rolled through this morning dirty
gray and smokey blue all rushing
overhead heavy and yet light—
light stabbed a building white
Four Lines
let your own umbrella swing a long
way wide just scoop your own path dry
enough to wade puddles and sky
then compose a song
Four Lines
spring pops branches bare black criss-crossed
stark against the sky into green
canopied leaf just the same way
we open our umbrellas
Four Lines
spring coaxes a last reluctant
branch into the new green of sky
and sun then breathes a near hidden
sigh to make the leaves flutter
