Packed in bunches
resting in a pewter bowl

a still life

yet ripe juicy
and rich

to blossom

produce flowers mass flowers
whites reds

and violets

whit howland © 2021

What I might buy
for a dollar or a dime

some cheap petameter
or a bad rhyme

about

love passion
or betrayal

something
like that

maybe more lurid
and purple

on days like these
all we can muster

is a piece or a scrap
of morale in a glass

served with a joke
corny or crass

or even worse
a  bad pun

inner space
between the ears

wind blowing
through a screen door

maybe chimes
in the distance



whit howland © 2021

sprinkled with the petals
of roses

much like ours that have crossed
throughout the span of time

the paths are dirt
where they diverge

with some flourish here and there
but mostly hardscrabble

making travel bumpy
and rough

shallow
not deep
simple
not complicated

there was fog
this morning
but it's burned off

so it seems

A child's garden
of simple verse

tone rhythm
cadence

so magic but
slowly

moving
into shorter days

longer
nights

whit howland © 2021