Does This Mirror Lie?

Dark stripes on the porch;
Bare lilac bush without blooms;
Wind chimes are silent.



Through the bare bushes
Bright red chair lies on its side--
A winter recline.

Mud puddles are ice--
Swirls of wintery blankness

Under the bright sun.


Does this mirror lie
That flows beneath liquid sky--
Its own reflection?


The meeting branches
Form a window on the world.
Beyond, tall trees stand.


Three young jogging men
Pound down the road as they chat
With muted voices.


Two dogs and a man
Ascend the familiar bend
Thus transforming it.


At base of the tree,
Cluster of white mushrooms grow;
Plane roars above clouds.