The raft of

the poem rocks

as I spear-fish

for the right words.

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Her dreams — a young horse,

raising dust, growing smaller

on the horizon.

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Silence,

stillness,

then,

the ice maker gives birth.

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Monarch butterfly —

stained glass portrait in flight —

Spring’s invocation.

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Birthdays …

more frequent,

less punctuated.

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Turtles on the pond bank

asking the Spring water to warm,

the willows heard every word.

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the Church prayer list

held his name, now six hands

lift his casket.

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Young cricket

in the watering can

answering himself.

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Blessed is the one

whose pants fit right!