So many mornings-
depression cracked...

Hearing children laugh
As they play with...

These hands of mine, are worn and done
the math they held, was more than some...

Now Alfred, no fooling with Miss Rella
You don’t want to end up like a peasant tree...

I stand at my window
and gaze...

Two flavours of life
such beautiful opposites...

I write with
wounded ink...

Pear-drops trickle from
Sugared rays and fall...

Sometimes-
I imagine...

A splash of rainfall
wetting natures appetite...

I close my eyes to paint a pictured scene
a view; unfurls and takes my breath a-way...

digging deep into
her pockets she pulls out handfuls...