a tree cannot push
against the wind, it must bend
and sway to it’s will
haiku
feathering the storm
they herald the wind
feathering distant portents
to soften the blow
george and us all
if who we are is
seen as less than a river
we will all run dry
found
a fallow field lies
dormant waiting for the plough
to peel back its truth
the last leaf
tenuous threads bind
to the dancing wind reaper
his whims will cut loose
fledglings
it’s the not knowing
yet they grew stronger than our
crystal ball of fears
so shadows fall
for Mark, our brother…
the moon throws softer
shadows when the glare of light
moves beyond our reach
past
what has gone stands here
still, and too our withered air
when we have flown
autumn
autumn quietly
slips between the sheets, soughing
our ruminant thoughts
comrade trump
fat baby porker
defiled snout raking the dirt
fattened for the kill