a few graves apart:
neighbors who had nothing to say
to each other

much of my life spent
wanting others to like
what I like-
in my jacket pocket the stone
is worked with worries

bitter cold morning-
compressed with the trash
some of sunrise

asked to arrange
the flowers in a vase
I put them in any which way-
so glad there are some things
which can’t go wrong

overwintering
in the hay wagon
scarecrow

one tree
one bird, one song
the dusk

winter wind
the voice of one tree
after another

before I was born
no troubles
yet here and there
these beauties
of being here now

no contest at all
sitting here under a willow
watching the water
while all sorts of chores
remain undone…