Still Winter Dust

By , This poem was previously published in The Red Pagoda poetry journal.

sunrise through new leaves strikes the fallen red fan - its still winter dust W. motes settle on the keys in between the notes a rest V.

the fiddler idle under the leaning oak tree only gnats dance W.

vertical road heat waves reach the Pacific horizon waves V.

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on the screened back porch the old woman's sleeping face smooth in the moonlight W.

permanent wrinkles in the sheets traces of memories left V.

the newspaper burns, overhead the engine drone fades in the distance W.

trying, over her shoulder, to catch the myrtle warbler W.

each note over half raised lid registers in the accompanist's eyes V.

framed in the front window pane the fluffed cat's suppertime face W.

powder fresh the first day of school her freshman year V.

her head against the oak trunk, a red leaf in her hand W.

clenched tight to the chest, a chocolate heart begins to melt V.

grandpa up early to see the old moon fade in sunrise W.

from the hen house clucks from the kitchen the smell of eggs wake me at once V.

a wet spring morning, cold keen, the cardinal's sharp whistle W.

sound from the jet shakes the first opening of the red tulip V.

by the budding zinnias sun fades an old valentine W. split poem here

wind buffets the trees - all the rows of downtown lights shine in unmoved squares W.

two teeth gone in front her smile broadens cast off lipstick V.

deep in the library the bum still smelling of rain reads word origins W.

strong odor of polished wood mixes with must from the stacks V.

mowing the puffball - a sudden, brown cloud surprises my daydreams W.

an old cow from the next pen loses herself among heifers here V.

an English sparrow drinks from a deep cattle track, tilting back its head W.

deep in song, the mezzo fails to hear an alarm V.

still on the stop sign an unblinking barred owl watches the fire truck W.

streaks of red across the glass paint bars on the unlocked windows V.

November evening - drawing near the chain link fence to make the moon whole W.

the top scoop of ice cream drops on the oil-splattered street V.

rain begins to fill the street up with umbrellas V.

the slap of bare feet running - holding white shoes in their hands W.

Yosemite tourists in late model cars with ecology stickers V.

mist from the high falls rising, washing the trees, our faces W.

suds cling to the side of the vase full of white cyclamen V.

snow on Mt. St. Helena, coyotes bark in the vineyard W.

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