When Winter Grows Bored, She Costumes the Trees

on the road, weather

drapes disguises over trees

tricks our hurried eyes

drive east with the storm

passing miles of white birches

look back on striped rows

and the costumes fade

into rows of dark brown trunks

snow-spackled maples

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