Poetry

Quite near but to quite to the white tile balcony, at dusk there soared or flit an acrobatic troupe of house bats out for joy ...

Got nothing much to say. The golden trumpet trees chucked their blooms today.

Many of your sisters and brothers stay inside the pod huddled together ...

What if the Spirit of God just appeared to me right now, and it was in a flock of wild turkeys?

How sad the moon must be centuries of poets explain to hang so dimly in the sky ...

When I drag our Skype conversation to my widescreen, high-definition monitor and mazimize it ...

Eucalyptus bending southward, angled by sundowner winds ...

Old white oak, are you better-looking in the winter? Your rounded crown is tufted pale-green gray with lichen.

Ah, la lune est brisée, said the child to the half moon. She stared, pointing her finger at the night sky.