It’s what’s for dinner
It’s eggs and muffins and bacon and juice
and potatoes and pancakes for dinner
and I’m looking at the bubbling
smelling the cooking imagining nothing
beyond this room
except tea later
when it’s clean and all is away
when stars begin to show through the veil
a light winter wind moves the brown limbs
on the tree dormant not far from me
as I sit dormant but aware
of distant blooms and grand schemes
that may or may not ever happen.
Winter birds
The ceiling was made of cheese
but he wouldn’t look up.
He missed the elephant boarding a tram
and the winter birds gliding
along the frozen bird bath.
He heard her singing
about green hills but didn’t know
it was for him. The floor showed him
where to put his feet
but not where he should go.
the January tree
the way wind was winter against my face;
I swallowed some snowflakes
as I stepped along the creek
and saw the past lingering
in mist above the fields
there was a tree
strong and alone
and we stood in January
The Word Rummager 