A good morning

Sun engorged buds
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Darling starlings

Image result for european starling

Dozens of alarm clocks squawk
– these darling starlings –

speak sun, speak beams,
speak corn snow soon to go,

squawk sun loaded bullets
to snow below – warning squawks fired.

Light flickers behind our shut eyes,
the Greek Chorus sings: yellow beaks

speak spring, speak spring! Awake!
We are here. We are here!

Pour this pestilence into her ear

“Here’s your tea, luv.”  The down-beat of “luv”, sotto voce, his dead foliage voice, was the catalyst.

Harry was a polyglot. He spoke the language of flowers, communing with them as he trimmed and transplanted. Each plant elicited a unique coo, and a song. Spring was Ode to Joy. Fall was Mozart’s Requiem Mass  which he was humming as he placed the foxglove tea bedside.

The authority of reconstituted foxglove blooms revived Lady Smock. Her heart raced and she rose from bed, retrieved her gardening gloves and plunged them into soil damp with expectation.

Harry hummed his seedling song – Hallelujah!


sun rays on a cloudy day
pinpricks through retreating
grey pierce the snow

i think of god’s smile
how Pat Boone’s teeth
gleam with goodness

and wonder about god’s bite
but not today
because I am smitten

by beamish light
and beamish birdsong
and beamish morning

light dissolving snow
down the drain, amplifying
the volume of life