some nights the moon—
a miracle—others
a bag of ash
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Writing
6/21/18: Proof the Season Has Changed
summer sails
sprout from the lake—white grass
from blue earth
6/19/18: This Moment’s Forecast
fat clouds crowd
the horizon, bellies too
full not to spill
6/18/18: Fallen
to think, after all
this time, storms might expose
roots still reaching
6/17/18: Shaking
his callouses—
in the moment—so like stones
to cross a stream
6/16/18: Snapdragon
blushed lips
of a pale blossom
pleading
6/15/18: Sense Memory
half asleep, fingers
beat a butterfly’s rhythm
on a dim keyboard
