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
https://youtu.be/NkZ6ygHdiX4?si=KK3hE6P00D_NvwPC
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
The morning starts cool,
the ground still covered in dew;
wait for the warming
I catch a distant
melody; a single note
lingers on the wind
For one brief moment,
the small hummingbird hovered
and then disappeared