dogtrax

A place to gather words before they get lost.

Though seemingly lost, I am not; I am thinking of intersections

A flutter fly-by, the butterfly flies, onward; a long migration

It's the tug and pull; we listen to the rhythm of each passing wave

Evening sun, flickers; shadows on the patio wandering away

A wink of the eye, a word dropped in casual conversation: flirt

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

https://youtu.be/NkZ6ygHdiX4?si=KK3hE6P00D_NvwPC

Seeped with gentle love, her mug of tea overflows; it's enough, for now