Change of Season

Change of Season

My mouth is dry,
my tongue thick and heavy.
It feels foreign,
as if it doesn’t belong to me.
Would my body betray me that way?

Perhaps I just need a glass of water
—but I’ve downed six or seven today,
and the thirst remains, unslaked, unmoved.

My lips are cracked,
and opening them hurts.
I’ve started communicating
without words,
but I miss them terribly.

Is this state of affairs temporary?
Could it be my very own
winter of discontent?

Out front, six or seven crocuses
are preparing to enter from stage left.
Daffodils and tulips will share the spotlight next.
Water from today’s rain puddles in their curled leaves.
I wonder if it’s enough for me.


Logos in Reserve

Word Hoard

My word hoard
continues to grow.
Soon there will be
no room for me.
The stack
is becoming
too big,
too teetering,
too good-for-someday only.
I try to add nothing,
try to take nothing.
I need the silence,
but can’t remember
where I put it.



The roundness of tonight’s moon
added depth to her words
printed on the old newspaper
that happened to find its way
into my hands.

She is a former colleague
who might have been a friend
if our paths had crossed
at a different point
in the cycle of life.

“I sense a circle full,”
she wrote,
sharing her past,
hinting at her future,
and reminding us all
that life becomes death
and death becomes life.

The vines
that form the wreath
are pliable.
They bend.
And as one slides past
a crook
catches on
a flaw.

Branches tangle for a while,
spending time together,
until they break free
and go their separate ways,
continuing on so that
a ring is formed.


My Own Notions

Sewing Notions

My sewing basket is a mess.

What’s that?
You didn’t know that I sew?
You’ve never seen
my quilts
and cozies
and embroidery?

I’ve tried to show them to you,
but you must have had
something else on your mind,
and likely never noticed
the machine on the table.

So yes, that basket—
it is certainly in a state.
The threads are tangled,
needles poke when I lift the lid,
bobbins are empty,
and ribbons unravel.

Perhaps I have too many notions,
too little time to care for them,
not enough material to finish a project.

Even if I did, would you want to see it?
Would I dare show it?
Would you promise to do more than
thank me for sharing?
Would you give me your word
that you’d not point out
the mismatched thread,
the dropped stitches,
the crooked seams?


Proofreader Rejection

Proofreader Rejection

In retrospect, I see the foolishness
of offering to enforce the rules
when I long ago stopped believing in theirs.

How does one cross the T’s, dot the I’s, and fix comma splices
when the world has been written in bad English
and the editor is only concerned with too many questions?

I appreciate boundaries and long to work within them—
unless, of course, they’ve been drawn by a salivating fool
whose speech defect and shaking hand describe just one dimension.

If your main character was created in a college lab
and thinks a kiss will send him to the bottom of the pond,
you’ll need to look elsewhere. Get another long pair of eyes.