cross country
driving through the shadow
of a thunderhead

gold lightning rod
atop the steeple

again
he pounds the pulpit
his point made

success of a new design
the carpenter retires early

it rises late
old and misshapen
the daylit moon

woman erect and swollen
a calendar without red days

long dim hours
the palm of earth holds us
against the sky

together in flannel sheets
not even the dawn can wake us

slat thin
the cabin walls
the outside in

overhead the skywriter
misspells her name

Super Bowl bound
a Forty-Niner tackle
writes home

the best receiver
is a tight end

who he asks
would send a valentine
with a moon on it?

skill of a diamond cutter
to crack her cold heart

water to water
in the hot tub two persons
as it rains

the whiskey barrel's
rusted hoops give way

to paint flames
the artist closely studies
flower fire

the westerlies
suddenly turn warm

a chorus
of spring peepers from deep
in the swamp

church choir goes to camp
what a chance to meet boys!

the one night
we girls sneaked to the lake
skinny-dipping

a call unfurls the devas
of low-growing heather

tuned
to a higher power
sprinkler rainbow

the bright colors of fruit
mom's homemade popsicles

it takes more
than store-bought geegaws
to court a woman

I stop being myself
when you enter me

the best
of all parting words. . .
later

the 'fridge stuffed with zucchini
such friendly neighbors

at the kitchen door
when the m-m-moon comes
over the c-c-cowshed

the wind is welcome
on her burning cheek

isn't it enough
that my toe is broken
and my brain is lame?

poetry is the death
of self . . . and rebirth

the answer -
why so many writers
are childish

catbird always taking
the best perch

pussy willows
above bare branches
contrails

under the blue spruce
leftover snow