AFTER THE STORM
Lost by the side of the road
A pair of flightless gloves
The color of bluejay wings.
Each new pot hole
Waits like a hungry bird
To pierce a tire.
On my way to work
I crossed three watersheds
Marveling how water
always seeks its own level.
Trees take on new angles a possibility.
It’s a race against gravity.
And we know gravity always wins.
The bright green promise of grass
Beguiles the eye with false allegations of spring
while herons wade along the clement shores
of new lagoons.
2/28/2019
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