catkin breeze . . .
the puppy softly whimpers
chasing a dream
lingering moon . . .
the bleats of one valley
answered by the next
fumbled kiss . . .
a bee finagles pollen
from a hollyhock
something
you’re not telling me . . .
camellia buds
the clank
of the flagless halyard
first spring alone
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