Early June Morning

Air scented thickly from many spring flowers.
Heat inversion and fog and warming skin.
A morning so heavy that the peonies
can’t lift themselves to greet the sun.
I sit shaded, writing it all down.



Morning Glories

Sunlight crisp through bare almost-spring trees and

the air still March cool except here,

this circle around us, hot coffee and

eggs and toast, birds breakfasting on seeds,

last summer’s flowers watching us with interest.


Inspired by such a morning and Basho’s haiku:

I am one

who spends his breakfast

gazing at morning glories

35 Words at 35,000 Feet

Wings trembling over the shimmering filigree coverlet –

a maiden’s bed, empty in morning sunlight.

Gravity, a weak force, leaves us alone.

We are falling. We are flying. No,

not really flying, or even falling.  Floating.