I held a dying bird today.
He started at me dazedly,
wondering why he yet stayed within his tiny feathers,
behind his narrow beak.
He wondered who was I that dared to handle him.
But,
most of all,
he wondered at the window.

Late last night I dreamt
that the rain would come and wash
all my tears away.

I found a pencil
buried in the couch.
Where have my words gone?

My mother's father
has forgotten who we are.
Sunsets viewed through dust.

Some time ago (just over four and a half years ago, actually), I posted a series of thirteen lessons my one of my cats had taught me.

Last month, I acquired a camera capable of doing justice to the cat in question.

Behind the cut, there is a photo of the kitten as well as links to the lessons learned.

( Read more... )

This season's windstorm
howling in the hollow tree
echoes in my heart

The first line would be too long.
"It's roomy and American," he'd tell you.
And then he'd discuss a car.

The Mockingbird laughed
as we fell past her into
the Raven's domain.

When the water came
it put out all the fire.
But Jazz lives in coals.

I saw that the priest
was given a few moments
before returning.