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When’s the right time to
wash winter blankets? Last night
I saw snowflakes fall.
Rake leaves left over
from fall. Clean porch furniture.
Spring into action.
Where river meets lake
we stand as Toronto gleams
across the waters.
Riverside village
quaint without self-consciousness,
where arts mix with charm.
Just water on rock.
And yet, sheer power compels
visitors to gape.
An unexpected
crocus emerges, smiling
from a brown leaf pile.
Florida is the
cheese at the end of the maze
known as air travel.
Slanting through speckled
panes, turning cobwebs into
faerie gossamer.
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.
Spring ahead and lose
an hour. What I could have done
in that length of time…
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
Days grow longer like
smiles that stretch wider as one
greets a long lost friend.
‘Beware!’ Caesar was
told. Like teens in horror films
he didn’t listen.
What’s that mean? That spring’s
a dominatrix, whipping
March ’til it submits?
Snow releases its
grip as small drops melt merge run
in noisy trickles.
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