Tagged: poetry

most days, it’s a strict

most days, it’s a strict
toleration, when no big
nor small gestures can

indicate otherwise – somewhere
between stillness and stalemate
.
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nine times out of ten,

on the way to a

on the way to a
southern summer, ninety-degree
fahrenheit – even

the mischievous chipmunk stands
still, long enough for a reprieve
.
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y

we wait all day for

we wait all day for
something to happen – in the
microcosm of

our backyard – life, death, and the
great escape, if only for now
.
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y

like humans, squirrels

the cat makes its round

the cat makes its round
every morning, under the
watchful eye of half

a dozen squirrels, two local
chipmunks, and this spring’s wren brood
.
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y

at the botanic

on the whole, we live

mom’s miniature

mom’s miniature
roses survived after all
these years, countless tries

later, now out back fending for
themselves against wandering deer
.
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y

catching us off guard,