summer – tinywords

summer T-ball — between batters outfielders chase butterflies

free from school the chalk dances across the sidewalk

summer at last I blow away a grey hair from my keyboard

thick stump an ant crosses the growth rings into my childhood

museum hall children study their echoes

fading tattoos he hauls her wheelchair from the beach

old pond— a crab sneaking into the sunken sneaker

leaf shadows spatter my skin this heat

wood’s edge— stepping inside the sound of river

mockingbird an octave shy of the moon

war ruins… suddenly the cicadas stop

Cigarette smoke curls against the white moon.

father-daughter talk my fishing lure caught in the moon

something less than the speed of light camellia blossoms

the junkyard crane grabs another car— wind-tossed poppies

laundry in the garden the colorful dresses full of butterflies

rising from prayer i find myself in tourist photographs

a row of white houses across the bay the glint of binoculars

bush track and mountains all I can see is one horse fly

between roots a woodchuck gathering sun

a beach day like any other until she unwinds the ties of her bikini

The sky darkens The ocean replies

Falling rain, the priest kneels before an empty altar.

a solitary bird calls to the space between lightning and thunder

my colleague flirting with the workmen . . . endless summer rain

rain in the puddle— I have nothing to give to the street musicians

towpath— a blue heron shifts the twilight

gone with the storm the wind chimes my neighbors quarrel deep into the night

seaside rest home the gentle swell of his belly

over my thoughts the hush of pines

Her last summer each day brings a new flower

workday’s end a construction worker pees into the summer sun

cobwebs fill the curve of the snow shovel

dropping my dog off at the kennel her whine amid all the barks

after the hurricane only the moon

last day of vacation— the blackberries won’t let me go

cloudy day I wave at the neighbors I don’t know

a spider on the floor tile— checkmate

bus stop an empty bench and a bag lunch

from pampas grass a dragonfly emerges thunderclaps

gusty wind chasing one another three plastic cups

beach party the last drop of sunlight caught in a glass

rain curtain of absences

the little spider hunches sideways— night shift

whispering grass ~ the scythe’s sound against the stone

World Series another layer of paint flakes off the fence

summer’s end lilies pointing toward earth

collecting stones from the river where I was baptized moonlight washes over me

summer’s end— rearranging gravel in the Zen garden

last bloom— closing the shears

shadows fold within shadows of the rose

again and again a little girl makes it rain cherry blossoms

phosphorescence a firefly alights on the periodic table

summer breeze … the wind generators in unison

back at the pawn shop— the moon in the window

the curve of her hips— buttercups

as she leaves again the scent of apricots

this delicate rain the petal makes a typo of a gravestone date

teaching my sons to skip river stones ripples converge

beer and wine a summer night with my sometime thing

perched at the tip of summer red-winged blackbird

in the park pigeons peck in front of empty benches

white water rafting we spin around our laughter Previously published in Mayfly, Summer 2008

sun-baked dust— the one thing moving is my neighbour?s tongue

Carnival Elephant

I lifted a single peanut up to the great animal. His trunk, as thick as a fire hose, brushed past my small offering and went for what I held in my other hand—the whole

flurries of willow fluff seven ducklings scatter among the reeds

delta breeze an old, old song from the ice cream man

how casually a brown bird catches a butterfly in its beak and flies away

it happens every year but still the woods filled with birdsong

long summer the smell of rain new again

summer’s end— I let the thimbleberry rest on my tongue

the skip of a skipping stone alpine swifts

Twilight

and it gives off the kind of hot chill one can get at times of transition. fever in a meadow, when the sun hangs on while evening cools the tall grasses in which you stand

moving through the summer moon slow swell

attention standing tall in a stiff breeze ixias

light falling everywhere ? ? ?in its own place — summer’s end

at a crossroads summer wind through prairie grass previously published in: Jim Applegate, ed., Small Canyons 4 Anthology (2009),