Mason
a skilled worker

who lays units
of substantial material

stone
or maybe brick

spreading mortar
like butter on toast

building one upon
another

you are a quality
a power

to determine action
without restraint

whit howland © 2021

they're glossy
postcards

of places along the road
like a jugular vein

that roped us in
and trapped us but not really

we loved the diversions

zoo animals fudge knives civil war  plates
fiddle players

and most of all
a skillet of ham and throwed rolls

all lozenges
for a feverish mind and a heartsick soul

whit howland © 2021

hands
no wind

we throw
caution to

hands
be they good

or bad

is something
we will never know

There will be blood
there will be sweat
and there'll be a fountain of tears

but the picture is worth
more words
than I 'll ever give you

the missing piece
find it

and you've finished
the puzzle

whit howland © 2021

Crisp
apple cider air

October
it's finally here

leaves
and other things

at the end
of their string

with acceptance
comes dignity

honor
and most surely

peace

whit howland © 2021

She rubs the ache from
my back, as the
morning sun
breaks through the
blinds.

She gently kisses
my lips in the
long hot summer,
and brings me
piles of leaves in
the fall.

She doesn't smash my
fragile-glass ego,
nor leave me wanting
in the night.

She births me
hundreds of
children that live
forever.

And she stays young,
while I grow old.

or over ice
or crashing to shore

aged Old Spice
and a ship

wrecked
on a faraway reef


whit howland © 2021