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
Four Lines
the sky I tried to paint today
is that blue mixed with cloud and light
the hue ideal behind my eyes
muddies its way across the page
Four Lines
I stepped on a crack – my back broke
snapped by a fall that snuffed the light
from a dream of merciful life
once held to be self evident
Four Lines
my roots are long in this small town
and no strangers travel these streets
but I can’t meet their eyes nor greet
their smiles because they’ve let me down
Four Lines
it’s new —this year— but it smells old
as if time waits poised to repeat
history’s stink of human greed
faux fundamentals wreaked the polls
the crafty sisters 