Poem Category: Australian

chopping winter wood
a butterfly
stops my axe

picnic with Laurel
our hands stop reaching
for the same small cake

summer-sweet salads
out of father’s garden
our sliced tomatoes

the peach trees sweeten
in the far dripping fog
the shapes of silence

too young to fruit
the apple trees hanging out
with old Jack Frost

window corner
the spider’s young
rainbows with dew

turning my eyes
to rainbows…
dew on the apple buds

high noon
the eucalypts
paint the river

without a hint
the apple boughs
begot with buds

kept watching
the sunset fire
kept dying