Poetry

The tips of trees on a pale winter sky
are like broken capillaries on a sad old face, they
feather out against smudgy clouds
on a black hill more

I poured a bowl of kitty kibble
outside my room upstairs.
Throughout the night
I woke to crunching,  more

The crickets sing their evening chord
the levels of their throats
what note
is that? more

Really? I said, they have a scent?
Yes, said my son,
they smell sort of like fireflies.
Who could imagine that? more

more

She was fine.
Okay, a bit lame,
but her old fiesty self . . .  more

As has been our long time tradition
I leave the last bite for you.
As I finish a meal I look for you . . . more

If you visited my house 
you could never leave 
without dog hair . . . more

There's nothing new about
being drunk on fragrance,
but I wonder,
as I stand beneath
the heavy lilac blossoms . . . more

When I was little
driving home with my parents
I loved to look in yellow-lit windows, more