A small pond forms
    from the tiny patting hands
        of the spring raindrops.

First white butterfly—
    are you looking forward
        to summer?

Garland of green leaves,
    wearing a sash of ivy--
        Oak, crowned prince of trees.

Through my window,
    no moon over Mt. Tabor—
        swoosh of passing cars.

Blackbird couple--
    shopping under the rose bushes
        and sun-broken clouds.

rising late
the moon wanes gibbous
outdoing itself tonight

pretending to be full on the inside
it glows burnt umber round the edges

deflated, ghostly soft
eerily misshapen

the sky around it misty
like the air surrounding streetlights
on a summer evening

it shines on us who were here before
it shines on us coming later

it looks down on us now
as though it had some kind of authority

Leaves just turning—
streaks of sun part somber clouds,
warm against sharp wind.