a roof for shelter
morsel to eat

to sit
in the presence

of love.

Slender green shoots
press through the
still cold ground
hands of the earth
lifted in prayer

Their strength is manifest
their exertions
carpet the land in green
their tender prayers
press forcibly against the sky
and keep it
at the distance
God intended

In the fall
invisible seeds will carpet the land
buried they will be
but in spring
they begin to speak

These buried corpses
will not only murmur
they will sing
in lush green voices.

I pray I will be there
yet once more
to join in the song.

there could be an unmarked car in your street
paranoia

I doubt I will be eaten by a Great White
I do not live in South Africa or Australia
and the two great water bodies just down the road
the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean are too cold here for that kind of shark.
I doubt I will die of thirst, or from hunger.
No wife will have me killed for the insurance money.
I will not be killed in a failed space mission, or crash a plane into a mountain.
No, my death will be quite ordinary, run of the mill, nothing to write a poem about.