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Tom Spencer Feb 3
slow stepping
through tall grass

the deer
navigates the meadow

by blazing starlight
head high, ears alert

stopping from time to time
to huff and stomp

sensing the unseen presence
holding its breath

a shiver amongst the shadows
of this leafless grove

Tom Spencer © 2019
Tom Spencer Jan 23
deep into winter
the last viburnum leaf

tumbles unbound
and nestles

amongst its scattered

the sleeping prophets
of soil and spring

each a paling dream
gently yielding

to the ceaseless
rhythm of abundance

Tom Spencer © 2019
Tom Spencer Dec 2018
dawn light
silhouettes the branches

dried leaves clatter
on the rooves and driveway

cardinal song
pierces the highway thrum

behind the rotting fence
a dog sniffs, whines and growls

the swimming pool scrubber
splashes and sinks with a shudder

one after the other descending planes
roar and then fade away

even in this labyrinth
of suburban sameness

everything is emerging
declaring itself

and then slipping away
like the feral cat

one moment
eyes locked on mine

next moment
disappearing behind the garage

Tom Spencer © 2018
Tom Spencer Dec 2018
cold morning light
streams through
the concrete cathedral
beneath the highway

the clouded breath
of a homeless man
glows and curls
in the golden air

cars accelerate
and the wisp is swept
into dim
and hardened shadows

Tom Spencer © 2018
Tom Spencer Dec 2018
clouds race by
like kites with broken strings

trees sway
***** branches rattle

cold wind
stings my ears

you ask why I love
the winter

sycamore leaves tumble
and swirl through the garden

brittle sails
crackling air

Tom Spencer © 2018
Tom Spencer Dec 2018
drifting back to

senses sharpen

an owl
sounds the darkness

and then nearby

three muted hoots

from a hidden perch

where wide eyes

for quivering

in the shadows

ears wired
for wings

Tom Spencer © 2018
Tom Spencer Dec 2018
a flurry of gold leaves
sails past

whirling into
and then out of

the sunlight streaming
between the buildings

everyone is in a hurry
eyes fixed on phones

headsets on
no one talking

only wind sound
and the dry scrape

and tumble of autumn
skittering down the curb

Tom Spencer © 2018
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