Photo courtesy of Craig Brandt
When sun brings melt
I wish I were
a bird in flocks across the sky
Not snow in quiet dance
on barren branch
Beauty's not a lasting chance
Spring will have
no truck with me
She'll hurry
water into earth
assuring now
her shoots are birthed
Photo courtesy of Craig Brandt
One finger bent with age
I note it standing out
where other branches
curve with weight.
My grandmothers' fingers
I was told
from warm water
on chilly mornings
had a hold
on artist brushes
for palette paints.
I thought of how my mother cut
forsythia branches
mid-winter months
of ice and cold
A few years back
my fingers talked
of age but unlike snow
releasing weight
they've kept
this older body's shape
My realization is, "Writing that is about ourselves in the mode of poetry, in its simplest form contains our feelings and, perhaps, our ideas about life in fewer words than do explanations and does all of this with a touch of music."