Nothing is too small

A hairpin of gold wards off the cold,
subtle music sounds when I wrap myself
in a silk shawl: nothing is too small.

In this game of consequences my
duplicitous imagination, like the sunset,
manages to heat the old villages by the lake.

Hidden

In the autumn twilight, my words blend their rhythm
with bird song, dance across bridges and linger in the
summer pavilions, free from their birthplace on paper.  

Those that fell outside the garden were covered in blood.
Feeling the shame others should feel, I gathered up my words
And returned them to my heart where I could nurture them.

Decisions

As we were landing on the African
continent, I wondered if now was the time
to admit to my wife that the morning
I decided we should move our home south
I’d mistaken a cloud of fruit flies for
A swooping swarm of migrating swallows.