Cabin

things in my cabin
hang neatly on the wall
contentment complete

Rush Hour

rush hour traffic
a ‘blader’ zips past
gloating

cleaning her windows
she destroys a well spun web
best-laid plans go south

carefree vagabond
enjoys the free wildflowers
never pulls a weed
rests in the shady woods
never plants a tree

aggressive salesman
beams into his mirror
practicing truthful

full boxes everywhere
but are we coming or going?
we can’t remember

ice fishermen
huddle over their dark circles
like frozen sculptures

a mother plants corn
her baby on her back
the future in her hands

baby’s tiny hands
her sweet round face, her alarms
our little clock

cook seasons the soup
her starched apron hanging limp
as the herbs she adds
.
(Summery thoughts on a cold November day)