Caesura

I can do this too, hold on

When the weather turns

Watch in awe

Wait

In wonderment, listen

At the end of the frayed, weeknight rope

I can remember the first days of Spring

Out of sheer will

I will recreate

The green

The youth

The primrose, if I choose

Beige

It's a nice place
It's muted, but purposely so
To any who'd wander by, I'd say
To make things make sense
I've worked hard
I've these eyes, after all
There is one thing, though
There is the question of the door
I cannot easily enter
I cannot easily leave

Ode to My Susans


Dear deliberate garden
Across the lawn grown long
I ask of you forgiveness
For days of absent song

The week raced past so clever
Don't wonder if I care
I tended needy gardens
And wildflowers there

I vow I'll strike the balance
I'll give and take with you
I'll seek you out to ask your thoughts
We'll praise the morning dew

Is It Poetry

How can it be, the hour's calm
Despite all that is happening here
The beat of the world
Foreboding and loud
Yet the chickadee sings its sweet note?

Wherefore the whims of the wind
At ev'ry map dot, it seems
Churning, marching
Fanning the pain
While the porch chime resonates fine?

What of the flames that burn so
Blue, yellow, orange, then to red
Smoke-filled eyes from the North
Westward heart deeply charred
As the core of your Earth sleeps content?