Housebound
Six-thirty, full dark already. Too cold to sit outside. Winterset.
Six-thirty, full dark already. Too cold to sit outside. Winterset.
Sometimes I do things for no reason at all, like a cat with the zoomies.
Summer nears its end. In the yard the tall white pine has started dying.
Sometimes I’m smarter than my wife, but she is always wiser.
When things go awry, people are dismayed, but cats are always amused.
Hot town, summer in the city. Back of my neck gettin’ dirty and gritty. Been down, isn’t it a pity? Doesn’t seem to be a shadow in the city. The Lovin’ Spoonful
In mid-June I start a green poem about silence, but the leaves rustle.
The cry of the cicada gives no sign that presently it will die. Basho
My cardio doc gave no indication that I might become my own ghost.
Curled up in a gold patch of sunlight on the porch, Cat purrs in his sleep.