dogtrax

A bird bombardier, a swooping Swallow, soaring inside a sharp wind

The night hour, gone, lost in a pocket of sleep; crumpled paper poems

for Algot

Five dirtied fingers playing in the soil, planting hope for months ahead

Crescent poems, composed in silence, lit from beneath the eaves of moonlight

A breath, then, before we begin

a moment to reflect

Each note on the page connects to another

Adagio Adagio Adagio

inked marks on paper transformed into something other

the audience leans in to hear

Flowers bloom; Spring tide of color among petals on forgotten paths

Willow, as subtle as sorrow, enveloping today, tomorrow

And yes, I have searched the rooms of the moon on cold summer nights.

— from 'I Have Folded My Sorrows' by Bob Kaufman https://poets.org/poem/i-have-folded-my-sorrows

In winter, we tape the windows of the moon shut with blankets, iridescent with outside light

we become its shadows

In time, we forget, too, the way the moon changes course, and becomes full

of promise

Kicked up bones, gravel and stones, the car groans from the weight of arrival

Shovel for trouble - till the soil to seek the gold; oldest story, told