The wild's been waiting for this sun, the day's begun to blossom madly
for Algot
A place to gather words before they get lost.
The wild's been waiting for this sun, the day's begun to blossom madly
for Algot
A percussionist pounding out beats on a tree; the woodpecker speaks
With its many folds, the peony grows; its small lobes, like a map, within
An old baseball, sunk into soil, never grows roots, only smudge and grime, remnants of past time
Still, some kid here tried;
Small fingers, folded on a stitched face of white thread and knitted lace, dug down into the earth with barely a trace of which game the ball even belonged to -
a home run hit to cheering mates or a hesitant swing, a loss that grates -
Some summer days race forward like a batter running base – you can bury the lede, if you truly believe in surfacing the story —
Other days slink, slow, a seed for song, a game of imagination most of us still play minutes before the sun fades away
Seeped with gentle love, her mug of tea overflows; it's enough, for now
Small eggs in a nest; little possibilities in a state of rest
A city, beneath, teeming in constant motion: the work, never done
In slow-motion yawn, the tiger lily stretches then rests on the lawn
On a dreary day of drizzle, fog and grey clouds, hunker down with books
for Algot
Nested in farmland, in a ground home – easy prey - still, the skylark sings