End-of-May shower—
the shovel I left outside
wears a shroud of rust.
End-of-May shower—
the shovel I left outside
wears a shroud of rust.
Monthly Archives: May 2023
End-of-May shower—
the shovel I left outside
wears a shroud of rust.
The poems I make
will not last nearly as long
as the spring mountains.
Memorial Day—
even names engraved in stone
can be forgotten.
Holiday weekend—
my neighbor’s dog barks nonstop,
shattering the peace.
Pleasant spring surprise—
from someone long forgotten,
a letter arrives.
seven May mornings
when the finches didn’t sing—
grey and dreary hours
Waxing crescent moon,
by your light I plainly see
these white primroses.
From a hotel room
with smudged and dirty windows,
I see sweet peas bloom.
If I were a cup
empty after spring’s great feast,
who would fill me up?
Spring crept up on me.
Is no one else astonished
by these pine candles?
Mark M. Redfearn 