top of page


In early spring,

when tulips barely crack the ground and buds on lilacs are hardly noticeable

when the greening grass can only be seen as you crouch down and part dead blades

I wish for baseball’s buoyancy,

I hear Bill King’s call of an A’s home run recorded in my head

And I smile knowing Dad would love Tulo’s shortstop pirouettes

In the singe of summer,

when it is too hot to weed

I watch the onions tops tip, wait for the tomatoes to ripen, wonder which bell peppers are red or yellow

And I carefully lift the raspberries so not to lose the ready ripe

or disturb the hiding grasshopper that nuzzles near a leaf

I later linger on the porch,

watching an approaching storm split the darkening sky with loitering lightning

In nearly winter,

after fall’s fascination with colors has long since waned

I study the clouds in anticipation of the first silent snow

and its calm caresses of a blue spruce

(blue spruce should always be bedecked in snow)


In waning winter,

when the remaining snow is sullied

and the arid acres lose soil to the whipping winds

I long for spring sun and the syncopated cycles of the seasons once again



bottom of page