village road . . .
the jingle of bullock carts
in the mist

spring day
announcement said
no flowers

progress . . .
the cobweb repaired where
it crosses the gate latch

dogwoods
the stench of
baby questions

dancing
above the hedgerow
just her hat

water
upon water
a spider into the bud

Easter morning . . .
three silos
on the horizon

an eye
in the window
of a birdhouse

the pause
he takes on his flute —
spring rain

age 88
all the whatchamacallits
in the spring wind