Cloudy gray morning;
Pickup roars loudly by
Leaving smell of gas.

Buttercup feather
Shivers under yellow bloom.
Soft end of the day.

Balloon on a pole
Has slowly lost its pizazz;
No more block party.











Sun brushes the woods
With softness at the day's end.
Even shadows smile.

Shadow on the moss,
Sharp and distinct as the leaf;
Swift imprint of light.




Even leaves don't move;
Everything's still, in the woods--
Motionless shadows.

Who's walking in front?
He has no face or features.
How could that be me?










Milkweed at sunset
Takes in soft rays of the sun.
Soon the buds will burst.

Telephone pole ghost--
Now you see it, now you don"t;
Was it really there?