crocheting
words into poems
this evening
crocheting
words into poems
this evening
82 degrees—
Sitting under an oak tree
Writing a letter.
His home lifted high
He hides inside the spiral
Until her soft hum.
In my moonlit yard
A symphony of crickets—
The warmth of Summer.
Sun-kissed waves of heat
Roll against my resting form.
A hero is born.
Yellow daffodils
Kissing a diamond-blue sky–
April Afternoon.
My clumsy footsteps
Scare away a woodpecker
Hunting for breakfast.
Not to be outdone,
The robins join the chorus
Of crickets and frogs.
With two loving hands
The sculptor offers the Moon
To a lonely world.
Complete reverence
As the poet paints the lake
With a seasoned pen.
The little beetle
Feminine in name only.
Spotted black and red.
Is it too early
To dream of ocean breezes
And sand-covered feet?
Brilliant morning light
Shows crystalline on the world
Till the grass comes through.
Flowers shed their dress
The seeds too seek out new homes
And fly with the wind.
Weightless blossoming
Whispered breath from hopeful lips
Wishes blown away.
When the crumbs take flight
Feathered motion interrupts
Shatters glassy suns
Tiny flying lights
Like stars come loose from their dark.
Magic in the night.
A sleeping robin
On the dying maple tree
At the edge of town.
Like a tired ghost
The Spring Moon yawns into view
Over the placid lake.
The rhythm of Spring
Pulses throughout my body
Each time my heart beats.
On a cloudless night
A mother’s hushed lullaby
Wakes the sleeping stars.
I often wonder
If the green of the forest
Would make a good home.
Bottling springtime
Using a teaspoon of words
Is a sacred act.
Like a tender bag
Filled with the most precious gems
Is my haiku book.