Poem Category: All

curled on my hand
a butterfly flitting
in this plump green grub

spring in the forest
by what designs
do tree rings grow

a morning chorus
across the street
the park’s early birds

magpies
calls in the morning
for choir practice

old folks home
phoning an up-date
of my troubled girl

midnight swim
I care little
who I care about

August nights
the pond’s mist in
the hiccups of frogs

garden shed
from my drawer of bulbs
which tulips will answer earth

woollen gloves
she brings snow flakes home
on her long-loose-hair