Soft breezes have disarranged
the long green ribbons
of grass.

Strumming the dulcimer
releases its music
from bondage.

Colorful autumn leaves
are like shards of a shattered
stained glass window that
land at my feet.

No person hears a tree scream,
but as a sentinel post apocalypse,
the evidence of pain is in the tortured
posture that remains.

Three centuries ago most sailors spent their
lives in a wooden world upon the sea,
yet seldom came to appreciate
the lovely landlocked trees.

The way through depression is down a
foggy street where all appears drab
and colorless, and detail
cannot be distinguished.

There is a false sense of security in knowing
window glass holds back the
darker blue of night.

Why not see the frayed rope as a gnarled and fibrous wave
that has crashed on a beachhead
of hemp!

The more small stones I create,
the boulder I get.

A synchronized flock of Plovers circled
over the mudflats, anticipating
the mysterious signal
to land.

I get only enough sleep to
keep me just this side
of insanity.

The sun rose from the sea in silence; but,
the gulls began their day
at the beach by squabbling
over breakfast.

A cagey negotiator of sharp spines,
the Cactus Wren longs to find
his prey already impaled
and ready to be eaten.

Hungry imagination transformed
dry blossoms into crunchy
caramel corn.

Offspring are parenthetical comments.

Dockside, the bare poles of the sailboats
imitate the naked trees
of winter.