windrag : poetry : journal

:: f : w : i : w ::


regardless of the
season, the wind and the pine
groom one another.


this is where we find
ourselves: broken reeds gather
at the high tide line.

as it flies

spring night, searching for
the full moon… a meteor!
then two! sweet failure!


the taste of spring rain
is enough to remind me
to keep it simple.


lungfuls of sweet jasmine… disaster,
averted at every turn—how long?
above a single moth-hum, the full moon:
resplendent through the clouds.