Sunrise there, way over there,
Way over beyond where the earth bends its shoulder
To see where the morning might come from
Sunrise that colour, the colour of that flower,
That flower, oh you know it,
That flower whose heads hang on the sunken green footways
Where carts used to trundle
And the cumulonimbus, the clouds that a child drew,
The clouds of a fluffy-inked ankle tattoo,
They now frame the distance of soon silver linings
And the sunrise lightens my darkness.
spring thoughts spring feeling
flowers scissored blue paper
always alive now
five sunflowers in a lemon-yellow vase
cat tiger-striped on the rug in the sun
Sunday afternoon is easy
we flourished in the sun
harvesting one another’s flowers
and now we feed tomorrow’s fields
You left me vases of flowers that did not die
A lemon yellow sun in the cobalt sky
A written instruction I was never to cry
All I wanted was to unhear goodbye
Roses are red
So is blood
legs stretching, muscles wire tight
eyes closed in the indoor sunlight
every seven minutes a daffodil crackles open
birds rise as one, calling to comrades
low sun flickers on flowers and wingtips
That cyclist hasn’t thought through the whole flowers-in-the-backpack situation. Pedestrians are showered with petals like confetti. Some smile and hold hands more tightly, others brush petals from their faces. Perhaps tears. The cyclist speeds on. At his destination, perhaps a red-brick block near the bypass, disappointment waits with its usual patience.
Poems tell the truth
Like cherry blossom falling
On cold Spring mornings
