All night snow
throws itself
into the headlights
dashes hard
towards grille and glass
We squint and curse
its mad determined drive
By morning exhausted
snow has fallen
asleep its last trick to
knit its own soft blanket
then turned tender snow
pulls itself close over the
car’s cold shoulder
there's a poem in every day
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
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: Poems by Mary Kendall
A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment
Puff Of Smoke Poems 