The weeds grow even
Through the artificial turf.
Where there’s will, there’s way.
Through the artificial turf.
Where there’s will, there’s way.
Max Q
I know what I ate
That made me gain all that weight:
Time to moderate.
Max Q
Can’t think of a thing
It’s haiku constipation
Need prunes for poems
Bill
Your fingers, stained
Sticky with indecision
Soil, sweat, reaping hope
Laurel
The smells of summer
Whatever way the wind blows
Smoke is in the air
Rikosan
That deep place of peace
All good rooted in its soil
Onion’s Freedom Dance
Maeve
No comments:
Post a Comment