Don't Say It's Not Blue

Tracks in the snow around the headstone

lit by the moon in their going somewhere—

sparrow, hedgehog, booted foot—

lit by the moon determined and blue

and there! a wreath dropped fragrant and green

blanketed by snow and lit by the moon.

For Poets United  midweek motif with focus on the moon

Monday Haiku

Feed me, mother said,

mouth open like a baby bird,

bread crumbs on the bed.

 

Spent shells fall to ground,

Redtail hawk drops from the sky,

Child runs and hides. 

Smeared blood, tearful face

The little bird wouldn’t die

Only a sparrow.

Linked to the poetry at the Imaginary Garden at http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/

Under Our Feet

The furnace groans under our feet
and candle flames dance on a draft
as lights fastened to garland strung around the porch
swing in the wind, moving slow.

We're moving slow,
finding a foothold where once
one was,
shifting under our feet,
like sand at the beach,
shifting under our feet,
moving slow.

Dawn's first light streaks above the barn down the road,
the shed and the granary take shape down the road,
close but further than once they stood.
The ghost of a swing sways from a tree
no longer there.
The faithful dawn cares not for a changing landscape
nor human inability to let go.