Canonical

The dove’s you

Ah you, my love

Calling in

One more

Blessed morning.

Scene before Twilight

pan across small

sea of cramped white

marble monuments

cut to wispy

old woman

bearing candle

black scarf

black sweater

black skirt

brown cane

opening rusty

wrought iron gate

Nest Building: A Poem

Upon landing, the mourning dove

Will pick up then drop

A twig several times before finding

Just the one it’s looking for,

And sometimes I suppose

It gets lucky

And comes upon the right one

On the very first try—but I’ve yet to see it.

If and when I do, you can be sure I’ll try

To write a poem about it.

A Bouquet You Can Eat

 "Fountain"

what stalking

the wild asparagus finally brings us to

a gustatorial spring.

The Shell Game

The lowly snail takes only his house with him

And has everything he needs;

The lord of the land takes everything else

And finds he has nothing

He needs.