Spring

Watching bees

Grass is green

Spring is here

Poetry

What is poetry, but

a language of the dead.

It’s an informal dance,

a shared cigarette.

Poetry is

but a one night stand.

It’s a wine ring left,

sheets, stained

between strangers.

Her silence is an offering

The morning sun’s a gift

Her morning meditation

I watch as my mind drifts

Our backyard is a symphony

The melody and pitch

Free from all temptation

Her presence does enrich