
the low morning sun
burns through gray clouds; the
still lake looks iced over

the low morning sun
burns through gray clouds; the
still lake looks iced over


a bloom falls to earth;
lit up by the morning sun,
it glows… for a time.


the mountain fog
cannot keep the secrets
of the bare tree.

They say that each and every single fly
Has five thousand lenses in each eye:
A three-sixty view from toes to rump,
And thus I become the fly-swatting chump.