Morning
Fog
Blows
In
The
Street
Like
Thin
Smoke,
Water
Soaked.
Rain
Over
Night
Left
A
Mist,
Kissed
The
Air
And
Washed
Every
Thing,
To
Prepare
For
Spring.
April Shower
Morning Fog Blows In The Street Like Thin Smoke, Water Soaked. Rain Over Night Left A Mist, Kissed The Air And Washed Every Thing, To Prepare For Spring.
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Flying
The Boss Crow Sets Forth Each Day, Wrapped In Black Satin, To Make His Foray Into The Busy Road And Goad His Fellows To Do More To Increase Their Store Of What Ever They Search For. He Poses On My Wall Where The Gate Abuts And Struts, Then Falls To Seize A Crumb, As Close To Me As He Will Come. He Rises In His Silken Cape, A Black Feathered Shape Untethered, Flies Up To The Skies And The Power Line, Preens In The Sunshine, Grips With His Claws And Loudly Caws, Lord Of The Air, Without A Human Care. April
New Leaves At A Few Branch Ends Of The Tree Of Paradise I see Across From Me. Lofty Only In Name And Of Little Fame, Its A Stubborn Desert Weed. If Allowed Space To Drop A Seed It Will Grow Anyplace, And Left Alone, Will Emerge From Stone. In Faith, It Reaches For The Name It Bears, Unaware There’s Nothing Above But Empty Air. Still, Faith Is Strong, Though Nature Can Be Wrong. Hindsight
Memory Strings A Power Line, Super Fine But Strong, To Remind Me Of Things I did Wrong. Yet I always Had A Song, Worked Hard, Did My Best And All The Rest. My Errors Cluster Like Sparrows In Flight, And Among Them, On Bright Wings, Are The Few Things I did Right. Predator
April Today, Dawning Grey And Chill. The Local Hawk Sits Insolently On The Wall Devouring His Kill. Standing On The Damaged Finch With Crooked Claws, He Gnaws By Inches And Feathers Drift Into The Street. He Must Eat, But I think It Wrong That I have Lost A Song In Service To The Hunter And His Need, April Music As His Feed. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
March 2024
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