earth

sheets of heavy rain.
like wet molten strings of glass.
how green the meadows.

the old black squirrel
can’t find his long buried nuts.
the hawk sees dinner.

the black knot of bees
thick as leaves on summer trees.
put upon flowers.

in the bright morning
the tired worm is sleeping in.
early bird hungry.

upon a black wing
now painted red with war paint.
songs of old lament.

a burst of red rose
delights my eyes and my nose.
wild rose of my home.