Vignettes

On the table, tiny tomato sprouts turn towards
the sun no matter how I place them.  I drink
steaming coffee watching finches fill the feeder
their bird dramas better than any battle on TV.
It is quiet.  The wind sculpture is still against
the pink morning sky, yellow flowers grow in silence,
a red cardinal is on the ground collecting leftovers.
The school bus beeps its backup as a straggler runs
up the hill waving his arms for mercy.

**

On my back watching white clouds
backgrounded by robin’s egg blue
(such a perfect name unless
you’ve never seen a robin’s egg),
feeling the heat of sun, the cool
of air moving hair around my face.  Then
the sky slides into white, the clouds turn darker and
in the East that lovely shade of deep grey artists love
whose name I can’t remember.

**

The moon simply appears in opposition to the sun
not rising as she sometimes does clothed in orange
splendor telling of harvests and bodies dancing
around a fire spitting sparks into the night. Tonight
she is quarter full, and still full of herself in her strides
across the darkening sky, giving nothing to stars
whose blinking wavering light mimic lightening bugs
synchronizing their search lights, looking for love. If
I still, I will hear the whip-o-will whistle its lonely song.