crow in a bare tree
that seems right, a bluebird seems
wrong, but there it is

above hawk's eyes hunt,
below our eyes classify
his rusty red tail

first morning in March
unexpected like lions
snow falls white like lambs

anticipating
Spring, we wake to snow, burrow
beneath comforters

blue bowl of purple
potatoes, pour olive oil,
sprinkle sea salt, roast

reforming each day
waterfall of icicles
streams down the holly

her small hands cupped full
of bells of all hyacinth's
first flowers for me

forsythia blooms
on slight branches leafless
bending to the earth

signifying spring,
suddenly purple, crocus
emerging in mulch

is the truth of trees
dull rough bark or early buds
shining in sunlight

Emily jammed today. She played rhythm while Joe lead ( Read more... )

8am almost
March and the sun's already
over the rooftops

hold my hand, little
southern girl, inhale this warm
february night