seasons are a language I understand.
after winter, comes spring
and then the
hatchling
nestling
fledgling
flying
today,
i hang the bird feeder
not for the birds but to mark
comings and goings of each season.
I Hang The Bird Feeder
The Gallerist
At the gallery
beauty & weirdness
jostle for attention;
a dare to express
If I were a painter
what would I depict?
Strangeness of the world
we live in or beauty of it all
to dazzle an eye
touch a heart
tickle a mind
For what is art
a mirror or a hammer?
The gallerist prefers
to knock reality
into shape:
“The world is an art gallery.”
Good Weather
Blue is the colour of sky
Delicious a taste of sunshine
In the absence of rain
Wind holds its breath
Oh, the sweet suspension!
Nature writes each line
Presents all elements;
Beauty in appreciation
Of the exact moment
PS. Sometimes it’s easy capture my world in six-word memoirs, other times not and especially when I’m on the move. But poetry never fails. So, I suspect I’ll be sharing more micro poetry, this season and throughout summer; call them “life on the move.” This also means there’ll be no backstories, as Archibald MacLeish puts it, “A poem should not mean But be.”
Wishing you a delightful weekend, and I hope you slow down to enjoy the scenery!