Cloud burst drenching us,
That day, love glistened, laughter—
Caught in a shower.

Three evergreen trees,
Left of snow spotted mountains,
Paint perfect picture.

Druids in forest,
Ancient, shrouded, eternal,
Stand of golden yew.

The book of changes—
Universe of knowledge in leaves,
Four seasons, one tree.

Pale reeds of morning,
Flash— sparkle in the 'nine-tails,
One red-winged blackbird.

Wild poppies swaying,
Her long red hair unbridled,
  .  .  .  Tantric was the dance.

Many years alone,
Suddenly— old thoughts of her,
  .  .  .  Lone raven in sky.

I cannot wait for spring
For the burgeoning,
Grass, flowers, trees
All each emerging
The secret tender growth of youth
A slow but bold display
Revealing to us beautiful truth
The white sweet lilies of May
I anticipate the morning dew
The crisp, brisk air
That carries on
And heats with sun
To become
June's evening fare

Winter weekend, drawing in the winds,
Two poets in revels of word and image,
Late nights, morning walks by sea spin,
All too soon, left with moving sketches.

She enters my bed,
Cloud of pillows under sheet,
New sun unwelcomed.

Sad wounded incurs,
Soldier— trigger happy dead,
Just like a good dog.

For all the posers—
Attention spans of a gnat,
  .  .  .  Simple syllables.