A brutal hike
each step of
sweat, ache,
throb,
though from afar
it’s a beautiful path,
a ribboned
mud route
slashed in
mountainside

our old apple tree

burdened with
the weight of
Bramleys

hangs a branch low

offering the ripest
for our taste

for some relief

I try to write these
poems

have them abide
thoughts

but sometimes

I let them rebel,
I let them flow

and spill
where
they
must

the ball
lost
in leaves

green
and green
and green

and suddenly

a sharp
thorn

the quick conditioner

to leave a lost ball
lost

I stop typing.
Not to catch birdsong,
or hear the winds whisper,

but to check if this old cat,
this old girl,
is still breathing
at my feet.

Often
I wish

to

let this ship

of troubled
thought
and doubt

quietly slip

out
the mooring
ropes

and drift

far

far

away

Strong morning
sunlight

spreads like
butter across
carpet

glows in
the glass
fruit bowl

sparkles in
the dimpled
copper pot