Don’t grieve when your eyes age
and details blur.
Now weeds in the yard transform—
tiny white flowers
float
Only if you bend close
do stems appear and
tether the magic floating blossoms
to earth.
So, also, don’t grieve over your shaggy
weed-scattered lawn. Mowed,
those floating blossoms
disappear.
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME
I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"
custom poems on vintage typewriters
One Poet's Writing Practice
A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment
where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry
