Not Haiku

 Some people don’t get to see 

green trees from their sick beds

or bits of blue sky. 

No occasional squirrels with fluffy, brown tails,

no scrub jays or those little brown & gray lizards.

I hope I remember this

as I ache & my feet drag,

& my hands hurt & wobble,

& opening a can of soup is tough.

That green, that bit of blue sky,

those jays & squirrels & lizards mean

I live a charmed life.

Summer walks...

Summer walks, smelling 

sweat & dust &

the occasional dog.

She stops to measure...

She stops to measure.

Yes, the wild fennel is

taller than her.

At Point Pinole (Not Haiku)

eucalyptus

wild fennel 

dirt

dust 

all that dead grass 

wind &

the Bay --

she plods slowly, smelling them all

& sometimes stooping as far down as she can

to pick & eat a ripe blackberry off the brambles. 

On Clark Boas Trail

Plodding uphill--

no sound but wind, &

crunching footfalls.

Written Last Week

Each Spring
I put away my sweaters.
But it's not warm yet.

---

Thankfully

that rose bush resurrects

every Spring.

---

Lupine grows in the spot

where there's no concrete.

It dies by Summer.

---
Spring by the creek--
a turkey & I 

walk the same path.

Falling asleep...

Falling asleep 

with the loneliness of nighttime 

and nothing else.

Though it’s daytime...

Though it’s daytime, 

crickets sing

in the tall grass.