Chitter , chatter chirrup
Three birds of a feather
A friendly chummy posy -
in perfect morning tide pleasure
Trilling , thrilling , touring Thrush's in the noon palmettos
Chiming sweet refrains in the -
broomcorn meadow
Musky , dusky weary
Gold songsters in a bush
A huckleberry trio in the-
nighttime hush

When the dusts settle from the last wheel
and the sickle moon stoops on the bamboo grove
the dead rise in the whispers of the southern breeze.

You may hear them splashing the canal's water
beneath the hazed halo of one quarter
by nocturne music of barn owl and crickets
in lights of glowworms from darkest thickets.

If you stop on the Rotwood Bridge
can hear them sing in gay abandon
though we're now all dead old spirits
the night can't make us anymore forlorn.

The twin moon may from the ripples broken
beckon you and if your spirit awakens
take a plunge for a joyous down go
amid cheers from the watery hollow.

This brilliant morning
anything is possible

we are limited only
by rigid minds
whose fragile confines

can be vaporized
by choice alone.

When I think of you and me
I think of a tree

Sometimes that tree is full
prosperous
beautiful
full of life
So full it reminds me of the stars
Where we sit on a blanket and count them
Where we think they are all ours

Sometimes that tree is empty
Each passing day
more leaves
fall to the ground
Until one day
all that is left is one
Saddened by what it has become

Walking through space
the stars form vehicles
for our imaginations

The sky was cerulean
Above the graveyard
Where unused toys
Were laid on the
Pregnant bump
Before the headstone.

An old man and his grandson
Watched the procession
From the hospital window.

winter chills my bones
fiercer every season

her warmth i seek
with the prayer

O God, let her grow not older

When i snuggle into her
hear her lips' quiver

..........let him grow not older