Noisy old carpenter’s hammer slam suddenly still— splinter in his thumb.
Dawn, great joy! hope! awakening! though waking to sunless blizzard.
Against his grasshopper plague The Saint prayed for seagull angels This morning, only blackbirds.
Fall journey with just these poems and the Universe— Basho, a leaf strewn road.
How it’s here puzzles him— here under exhibit glass and lights, his old, lost marbles taw?!
Jewel of morning, dew glint on willow leaf. Summer wind shakes it
Summer dusk, poem thought— hummingbird hums in, whirs out— gone, just like that, it's gone. A poem composed last night before the Ragtag Community WOD, transition, was posted—but applicable.
Under a pale sun— a thicket’s last leaf and, wind-ragged, a yellow finch Posted in response to the Ragtag daily prompt: Solitude.
Whether that shovel leans against the shed or turns soil is irrelevant.
In my willows, magpies— will they yatter this conceit all summer long?