lakes
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I know that there’s a clearing’s reprieve
for weary travelers:
ones with honey thoughts,
those like geodes,
us like patient coal.
I’ve never ever seen that lake
but I hear
Golden air of mountain,The Trees glow with the sunset light,They sing their own goodnights. Though not a last goodbye,From stream to mountain they sign on high,In air, their children fly. And the moon’s sweet whiteness,Will struggle with the sunse
Before words,
Poetry was what I saw,
Outside my window.
Swallows swooping from,
Spittle-caked nests.
Bobcats bounding among,
