morning is slow, a poem

moon 155

in thick carpets of air.
the morning is slow.
the lawn rabbits
don’t care.
about the moon.
pale blue cellophane
still whispering night.

 

Photo: youtube.com

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night’s migration

compass photo for PDM blog

migration
and
a summer night
reflecting
flocks of stars
a compass glass full of
directions
for
late
blue
sky’s
pocket

*To be read down, then up.
*You may find you pause in different places going back up.

Photo: commercialspace.co.uk

And That’s When

I have loved you at all hours,
but there is something about
3am tonight – that it’s impossible –
that you’re sleeping –
that it leads to 6am –

when there’s an alarm –
when there’s your career –
when the dry cleaning has to
be good for something, right?

Then I realize, I’m right too
often. Because you’ve told me
I always have to be right, and
this 3am, I’m willing to be wrong.
And that’s when I reach for you.

Good for One Autumn Day

I’ve decided this poem can
carry on without the moon,
without the romance of a
heart breaking, without
a misty morning walk.

There will be no winter
storms, no spring rains, no
honey bees herein. And if I
had my way there would be
no explaining, just the beauty

of a blank page, not from
sloth or ennui. It’s just that,
as night pauses here to hide
the shovel where we put it
and to manhandle the leaves

into a corner of the porch,
I thought maybe you’d had
enough of nature, too. But
should you feel in need,
here’s a crisp, blue sky. (Good
for one autumn day. Restrictions
may apply.)