I love the poets who can look at a thing & tell you all about it.
I am not that kind of poet. The hornet at the window is just a hornet, even as he fights the spider.
I put an empty cup on the table. I call the sunrise a holiday from dreams.
I am not clever though I know a good deal about remorse.
There are five crows circling in the fallen leaves. They have nothing else to do
but to walk in rhythm with their appetites.
As a friend of mine might say, there’s nothing perfect here that I know of.
A scattering of clouds arrives from the east. I am glad they are clouds & not ideas.