The  cherry  blossom  is
beautiful  this  year.

Thick  pink  clumps  covering
all  the  trees.

Should  stay  nice  for  awhile
If  the  weather  remains  calm.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2016.

If I were a tree
then a poem, to me
would flow just like
my xylem and phloem

Listen to the rain pour.
I mean- listen to the world's roar.
The wind; brash and arrogant.
Unseen forces leave strong trees bent.

*Lightening cracks open a blackened sky,
rolling thunder follows to say goodbye.

Swarming:  bees above a skylight.
Breath forming:  a child asleep in fading light.

Innuendo:  eyes when a kiss ends.
Before crescendo:  the audience as the curtain descends.  

Age:  a handwritten journal from a wandering liar.
Exhausted rage: Slauson Avenue after the Rodney King fire.

Utility: a brown wooden desk with empty drawers.
Apostrophe: an oration delivered near crashing shores.

A life destroyed:  an Olympia typewriter covered since 1975.
The void: a poem read aloud, addressee not alive.

I am thinking of the dead
who are still with us
on their way in the rain
to meet lovers or brothers
and my sadness waves back
like grain in the fields
of lost summers and summers
before that, fireflies in the dark
still young and beautiful
like starry nights, but for them
there is no moon, and for us
the same news we do not receive.