dogtrax

The tree bark's a map of lines leading up, like vines; each path ends at sky

A long whispered sigh signals itself from the glass carafe on the kitchen counter as the small pot of coffee gurgles its way to a stop; I fill a mug, take a sip and begin to write

for #ds106

Almost a baseball buried beneath the soft ground, the turnip surprises

Extinguished candles dancing in rhythmic patterns of soft soot and smoke

One leaf on the tree refuses to snap and fall – rage against the change

Slow thaw – a slow drip of words that come from somewhere inside a locked box

A burst of the cold traveling through winter clothes, we hug ourselves warm

Snow melt happens, slow - a barren head pokes through as crown of winter grass

Some things don't need clocks - You start them up when you can then come around, stop

for Algot

We are not machines, but we speak their language in whispers and rhyme. — Yafira, https://electrocuteblog.wordpress.com/2025/07/13/poetic-pattern-recognition/

An ear listening for patterns where rains fall where codes run where fingers write where new poems, begun to stretch the limits of turns of phrase, even machines search for something recognizable, to say