Poetry

Be red desert blush. Be peacock plume glanced by high-noon sun.

In the vein-code of a leaf, hear it in the bleating of the neighbor's round-horn sheep.

It brings me joy to report that to scarecrows we all look the same ...

In an emergency room, I sat beside a man with a pencil in his eye ...

Yet, how is it we never find their slim bodies after they die?

We can't stop the poplars from changing color and dropping their leaves.

May bad ideas lack consequence, like use-by dates on bottled water ...

In the mornings, dried hydrangeas strike up against the white siding of neighboring houses ...

But if God were gentle, here's what would become us: bluest sky, the sun-warmed porch, both beholding a glorious afternoon ...