tea cup moon
the scent of jasmine
from the temple

-Don Baird

AK-47
the suddenness
of it all

-Don Baird

each rose the wind leaves behind

-Don Baird

flowers and things
memories of my father
with his camera

-Don Baird

child’s play
the last of the olives
on his fingers

-Don Baird

windblown
the spider hangs on
by a thread

-Don Baird

backpack
the silly thought
of permanence

-Don Baird

red tricycle
the loneliness of
a playground

-Don Baird

in the slag
a flower I didn’t
expect

-Don Baird,

coloring
snow with snow . . .
winter gust

-Don Baird