When we say
evening

         we might
be

talking about
     the line between

late afternoon
              and twilight

        the sun still
alive    

      and lucid

a breeze that
blows

                  while
warming the skin

and ruffling

maybe
                               styling

the hair

Whit Howland © 2020

At it night it
moves

in silence

leaping
tall buildings

past
the weak

light of street lamps

faster
than
the
speed

of a thought

Whit Howland © 2020

There not
broken if they're
sutured

with two rows
of  stitches
parallel to each other

and wide enough
to plant a column
of flowering trees


Whit Howland © 2020

Horns blare
as cars  
rub bumpers

trying
to connect
into one long train

we'll be okay
if we focus
on what's concrete

and just drive
forward
and make it home

Whit Howland © 2020

flowers bloom
then petals blow away

trees leaf
leaves fall

grass greens
before

it fades again
to brown

and we're all
auteurs

artists
in our own right

with style
and cadence found

everyday
in the mundane

Whit Howland © 2020

All angles
and rectangles
of natural

geometry
the antithesis
of mystery

fiction
but rather
orderly

clean
and efficient

Whit Howland © 2020

Three cars long
a passenger a box
and a flatbed

pulled

by a stocky
blocky locomotive


the caboose

has long since given
way to the ellipses

Whit Howland © 2020