the weather has been kind lately: perhaps the gods are going back to sleep
summer’s soul leaves the meadow in its own time
summer packs up and the driftwood ancient as time itself floats in
bloated belly: swallowed a ton of salt winds on the breakwall
summer at low tide: the crab scare on the bread baited hook
tread lightly: where the grass grows in soft spirals
keeping the evenings gentle with a ritual emptying of the cluttered mind
forgotten boundaries: the frail flesh and ego’s i
islands of flowers untouched revealed in a black and white dream
like cattle we follow the shade of clouds across the concrete fields
