71 Bus

She sees my beat-up book
Where I search again
For an answer
In an old bus that hauled
Gardener to gardens and
Back again and again
And still needs attention.
I like the look of silver.
"Silver?" she says,
"That's rotten duct tape."
Yes, I suppose it is.
"I like it too," she says
And takes a photo.

This Nook Naved In Alders Is

This nook naved in 
Alders is where time 
Caught --a covariant
Force in light, gravity,
Emotion, thought
And low fog-- makes
Frogs sing at night.

Early Spring

Poppies appear early this year.
Winter shifts its center and
Stems lift flowers  --a season
Warm among things young
Then old in mere hours--
Our star infusing forms with
Life, us too, young then old.
It is often very confusing.

Cogito Naranjado Sum

So we  think, 
Therefore are,
And must be here
To think, but first
Learn by asking
How: how is such
Thought defined 
As much by what is 
As what is not?
So all that is not me,
I must also be.

RAIN!

Light through a lens refracted
In bright echoes of phantom
Sun --wind-driven optics align.
This is how it's done: send dust,
Time, entirety pinwheeling in
Space; ignite thought, feeling and
Place them right under reeling storm.
They will observe then run inside
Where it is warm, home --where
I am writing this poem.

I Have Been Thinking Of Colors

In a midwinter web
Raphiolepis snags some
Morning gray and holds it
Where day may take it,
Measured out atom by atom
Into other seasons-- into
Beans, berries, sea-green pattypan--
Past and future gardens.
I do not know where
This web began.

Mailbox Bulbs

Bagatelle,
Encrypted
In living cells
Defines each
Unscripted
Judgement Day:
Not destiny,  more
Melody in time
And  chance; not
Hell, but
A bagatelle,
A dance.