Winter’s Trees

The winter’s trees all seem
to root in fog in some
unfinished scene, silent
as the absent green; these
whose motion is to wait Continue reading “Winter’s Trees”


That bumble-bee
is meant for me;
he ricochets
off his delays.

He loads a rose –
right in he goes;
I rest and wait
and guess my fate.

A dream’s a fool
and earth is cruel;
the skylark folds;
the blackbird scolds.

The rose takes aim
to kill or maim –
he buzzes past –
my luck can’t last.