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Rumbles of thunder
promise that soon fat raindrops
will bring refreshment.
When’s the right time to
wash winter blankets? Last night
I saw snowflakes fall.
Earthworms emerge, splayed
across sidewalks, tender skin
snags on rough concrete.
Dog is lagging yet
clear skies pale green leaves urge me
to linger longer.
A romantic name
for a seagull poop splashed walk
among spray and rocks.
Where river meets lake
we stand as Toronto gleams
across the waters.
Just water on rock.
And yet, sheer power compels
visitors to gape.
She curls around the
baby like a spiral shell
protecting its snail.
An unexpected
crocus emerges, smiling
from a brown leaf pile.
No one waters them.
Tiny cells plead, but TV
seems more important.
Like cows with their cud
we would chew constantly, and
then we’d all swallow.
Night winds roar like a
giant parent screaming “Go
to sleep!” without words.
Hills like cut paper
black against tissue blue skies.
Through poked holes, stars shine.
Now that the snow is
gone, her neglected garden
pokes up stalks of loss.
Hats, gloves, put away
in optimism return
for winter’s last gasp.
a dilemma of
riches in tiny topaz
the art of language
Mud has a smell that’s
like waking up to coffee.
You know you’re alive.
the constant dripping
nature’s tears of joy as she
sees her world reborn
The equinox means
equal night and day worldwide
yin and yang of light.
Days grow longer like
smiles that stretch wider as one
greets a long lost friend.
Like the extra hour
when we fall ahead, this one
day a trick in time.
February’s haste
to usher in an early
March slowed by one day.
Luminous suitor,
the moon dimmed by darkness’s
seductive regard.
Through the rainforest.
Lunch at Rhythms Rainbow Beach,
then Carambola.
Green Cay Marina
walk. J gets stung, M watches
A Christmas Story.
We eat cereal
on the porch by the sea, while
island music plays.
Intense turquoise, the
water is a wake-up call
to swim, sun, sail, dream.
No greater self-love
than a dog licking itself
with satisfaction.
We bring it home, put
it on life support so we
can hang ornaments.
Sad orphans ripped from
the forest stretch out their limbs
pleading, ‘Take *me* home.”
Like speed dating, if
they make a good impression,
they come home with us.
White has many shades.
Shadow blue, sunlit gold, grey
of approaching storm.
Small delicate word
studies of a larger life
viewed by an artist.
The Windy City
carries aloft a million
dreams on fierce updrafts.
They’ll watch football. We’ll
cook. Men and women. Hunters
and gatherers still.
First snowfall blankets
unraked beds of leaves. Nature’s
default is beauty.
Wet dampness always
seems colder than that first soft
warm blanket of snow.
Trees have never held
leaves as late as November.
Frost was wrong. Gold stays.
Fourteen wild turkeys
on my back deck raid the grape
vines looking for fruit.
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