Poetry Commons

The noon sun hangs low in the southern sky,

Shafts barely skimming tops of ancient fir trees.

Their sideways glance invites quiet seeing,

Where slight movement spirals into ripples.

I pray to the Cardinals

The most reverent of the birds Their presence indicates

lost loved ones

with no words

They come in

at times of grief

This sense sustains the House of Memory.

A baby's smell relaxes me.

My nose feels near those prenatal “clouds

of glory” old poet Mr. Wordsworth worded worthily.

Clover’s odor covers lovers clinging close together.

Granite scree on mountain slopes

where I once was broken

shattered

a stunning composite of shards

and stardust

now I finance my future.