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

It churns,
it batters,
it froths,
it bullies,
but this
blue sea
spat upon
the shore
a marbled
body of
driftwood,
smooth
slim,
fine.

He’s armed
for a picnic.
A basket of
food ammunition,
a bottle of
pinot gris,
and a baguette,
held in hand
charged like
a bayonet.

It rained,
and water
gems
collected
in the leathery
pockets
of a savoy
cabbage
leaf,
each bold
and full
as the head
of green
beneath