Birdsong

A birdsong warms the sun
It lightens food for flight
And pleases a place in me
Like the flat red fingers
Of reawakened maple leaves
Playing in the noon-day sun
Green and dark red on top
Softening the light’s glow
Pleasing yellow bees below
As they fly from their hive
Seeking nectar in flowers
The undigested distraction
In eternity's muscled crop
Birdsong sings to my heart

Tree Frogs

Folded into the silence of my country home
It is always very easy to find comfort there
The night air is misty clean and man is silent
Cloud covered land at night lets in no light
Departing sun leaves a mossy rich darkness
That offers a new dimension for our hearing
Sounds change each moment of every season

Warming the evening blackness by my house
I listened to three tree frogs calling last night
Loud and distinct in the springtime darkness
Voices calling in front of a million other songs
All composed near the pond down the road
A distant din of frogs like a mountain range
Formed a nonstop horizon of sound at night
The perfect background for the three voices
I could hear calling in my yard near my chair
Where I sat in a sound that stayed beautiful

April

...'From April showers spring May flowers'...

Perfection

Never-ending the task
Of seeking perfection
Inside each crumpled start
That waits in the waste
Crushed by living hands
Enslaved by cultured minds
Seeking to find perfection
Filling the bin with beauty
Over and over again
Hidden in paper balls
Tossed onto silent waste
Each wishing for more lines
To grace their empty space
The countless bold starts
At the top of each page
Can teach a writer
That hari-kari is real
Inside a crumpled ball
Tossed into the pile
While failure only visits
If our stories die through
Bad reading or soft writing
Or implausible situations
All needing to be understood
And begging to be forgiven
Before a story can unfold
Logically and sensibly
In its own perfect way