Potential

The breeze follows me

Around the corner

Before continuing on its own way

Dancing to its own tune

Before that

The first line was last

Due to an unusual

Sunday afternoon sighting

Also the second love

Where a couple

Have resonated

For the last half-mile

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Potent

Here is the feather

But already I have forgotten

The time and the place

That it entered my life

I do remember that I thought it to be

A native American Indian tradition

To bring security and joy

Into the wigwams and the teepees

I have an idea

That it could have been a monastery

A retreat to spirituality

Where events such as this could occur

And now my invaluable

If somewhat vulnerable breath

Blows it across the table

Requiring a moment of recovery

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Turning Corners, Sunday Mornings

It is a quiet town

For a bright orange

’67 Transporter

Is everything as it really is

Is this the truth that they really represented

It is a slow-driver Sunday

For a gloss black

2010 Transporter

That the presence should wait for me

On the tarmacadam roads of awareness

Have Laura’s green leaves decorated the BA

And could they do the same

For my next year’s transporter

It is a black coffee rest place

For an Italian jacket and a Japanese pencil

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Setting Out, Turning Back

One footstep too many

One raindrop for the few

One beech nut tree story

The fell and the root reordered

One old school house standing

One age of time to view

One car driven too quickly

The pace of life in residue

One branch softly swaying

One sunspot to include

One patched up blue sky

The hope is to preview

A seat looking out

Away across the meadow

A treat for sincere sore eyes

After a walk, a path to follow

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Play

It wasn’t Rocco

Who complained

About being hit by the wheelbarrow

No, it was someone’s mother

Who asked why

Why would anyone do such a thing

But there and then

With an adult’s intrusion

Rocco’s game was over

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