windrag : poetry : journal

:: f : w : i : w ::

tone poem

our parking strip, neglected, grows up wild,
every season shows a fresh new
face, diverse and course, ’til when it’s at
it’s lushest it’s razed to dirt.

the neighbors cultivate their little patch,
and season after season pluck
the weeds between the cared-for plants they planted.
year-round, a pleasant place.

and there you go, my love,
making the same mistakes.

reading inside

wave after wave of
spring rain. nothing that’s written
makes love easier.

meteorology

something holds the trees
as spring’s first storm sends them swaying.
feet at shoulder width.

for burton watson

how did i fail to notice that you were on
my nightstand, the night you stepped into the spring?
never having left my village home,
pictures of far-off lands inform my dreams.

growth mindset

after years of drought,
weeds and flowers both look sweet.
pause, and reassess.