Green

Spring did not come easy that year
and neither did her happiness.
Both were wrought from cold hard ground,
after having to be tough as nails,
face into belligerent gusts of wind
and relentless rain.

Exhausted they both turned toward the sun
the moment it appeared.
The first bud was strong and sweet
paving the way for full bloom.
Tiny leaves gathered on the branch and
suddenly everything was green.

Untitled

There are places I cannot get to
Unless I leap real high
Cling until my muscles begin to shake
Dig until my fingernails begin to bleed
The truth is hidden in a crevice just out of reach

I once caught two lemons
and with my brave hands
made a martini.
It was shaken, not stirred, and perfect.

Dribbles

These are things that did not become poems:

I used to be able to catch lightening
chase storms as they thundered over the hills
But I am weary now and
Winter is Coming.

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Time moves slowly due to frost
Even the moon is more tired with the nights so long
No one sits on the damp park bench
The grass forms a carpet of icicles

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I once climbed a mound of dirt only
to discover it was a temple.
I kicked a stone and it tumbled down,
terribly unholy.