4.2.08

twa pomes.

Easter
Day-dropped dew ringing the shout,
the thorn-crown red-weeping,
and the sad-glad news of dogwood
timber holding the man.
Today,
life begins.

The wee white cat.
I fear you, wee white cat,
footpad of the night, and more so
than your sablecoat brother.
Which hollow hill did you sneak from,
to munch on mortal mice?
You jump away from the car speeding —
do you fear the weight or the iron
that makes it?

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