Poem Category: All

fallen Oak
its open grave
bathed in light

shedding rose…
sprinkled on the table
moonlight through a vase

I hear the wind telling
in autumn rustles–
no leaf returns exactly

on the lake
growing into winter
a top of mountain snow

river Gums
the sound a rope swing
carries me back

winter trees
their veins in the moonlight
connected

in fog
the Mosque’s last call to prayer
along our street

being alone
with the fog
our car on the bridge

sitting up straight–
the tuck-in sounds
at grandma’s lunch

late sunset
a tiger moth brushes my face
in the shadows