Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Technically, dead

Eating warm peaches
Atop the fresh spring lawn
A whirling sprinkler dousing
A halo of crocus ‘round the Bradford pear tree
Bare feet combing the wet grass
Distant cry of the wind chime
Lazy teller of time—not urging in its tone,
But softly nodding
In harmonic compliment
With the hum of bumblebees wings;
I turn my computer on
Like a low flying bird into the grill of my car.