Picking Up Roots

Raindrops

tears from the sky
explode gently
upon the roof,

their quiet patter
the rhythmic background
that soothes us

as we drift away
into a healing
slumber

Writing

in the total dark
before the dawn

a pen glides
across a creamy page

filling the blank lines
with black blood

from the soul,
the aged wood

of the table
creaks beneath the weight

of each word,
hoping one or two

might soothe the ache
of the restless soul

Spring Morning

an April frost
replaces morning dew,
aging the verdant field
before the dawn;

fresh trimmed diamonds
of rich, earthy brown
stand out
as beautifully ice gingerbread;

hard to imagine
a summer game
will be played here