butterfly dust . . .
the question I never
dared to ask
just-fledged light
chips of wren song
from the log pile
summer’s end . . .
the willow leans closer
to the river’s song
mayfly in amber
the ink of my death poem
still wet
the white tip
of the puppy’s tail
morning star
thought by thought
this after-sunset sky…
pipistrelles
moss-covered stones . . .
my absent father
comes home to die
the longest day
a Royal Enfield putters
into the hills
cumulonimbus
the egret preens deeper
into its breast
spring mist . . .
steaming in its caul
the newborn lamb