skeins of mist . . .
I wind a memory
from mother’s hands
white peony . . .
the very notion I know
my own mind
spring wind
a young sheepdog
skedaddles the lambs
faded names . . .
serifs of lichen
and spring rain
sun’s embers . . .
the rust-fangled workings
of the old mine
goldfinch breeze…
the sense of losing
what I never had
waft of meadowsweet
the whitethroat airs
its song
sometimes the music
sometimes the words . . .
plum blossoms
paintbrush upturned
just as the small child left it . . .
first crocus
hint of spring
the better world
through my dog’s eyes