Because I do not write, tulips fill
with rain. I lose track of the moon.
The air is damp and heavy with spring.
Cloud-white parakeet gently cleans
the face of her blue mate. Overnight,
cottonwoods leaf out and this morning
pale blossoms grace the ash trees.
This orchid stubbornly continues
to bloom. On Friday, that unlucky
thirteenth, my fifty-seventh birthday
falls, while this black cat crosses
and recrosses my narrowing path.
--
~ SB =^..^=
http://www.sbpoet.com
http://sb.chatango.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/sbmontana/
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