Poem Category: All

born hearing them

the tiny turtles scramble

down to the waves

winter moon

his graffiti tag drying

in the wind

in chalk dust

the weight-lifter just holding up

the seconds

one wind pile

after another

of crinkling leaves

the scarecrow whirls

nearly in the corn

a summer wind

the scarecrow turns

on the horizon

a sliver of the moon

without a bucket

a well dropped

stone

between sips

the taste of old rains

from the stone well

mountains of clouds

finding in the sunset

some homeward geese

in that moment

the well-water moon

shines back