7/365

today is already
tomorrow’s, moon.
but the rest
belong
to you.

278/365

Outside the office,
freshly-planted hostas are not rushing. Not reading
an email
Sent from my iPhone.

White tongues on green leaves reach out
to taste the air.

Is it Fall?

Jim knows a thing about packages
moon. this one may be small
but it’s perfect
(for you)

(Frank thinks so too)

I saw you
walking home late
afternoon. Maybe
after dinner
at
your mother’s.

Looking right.
Then left. Before
crossing to close the last
block.

I wonder, if she served
mashed potatoes.
Your mother.

If she knew
the wind
was not the first, today
to sift your curls.

Kiss
your cheek.

There will be
days
that matter.

Today.

The birthday
of your mother.

All the days

between.

Some days…

I’d like
to pack the things that
matter most
in one
small bag and find
a bike
and ride.