Waves

I see something in

the breaking waves,

a dog, a bird, a swimmer.

The waves curling,

crashing,

spreading over

each other. Rolling,

joining.

Waves and spray.

Blue sky.

 

Sunrise

Poem and photograph © Kristin Cleage

Rising from the

ocean, the sun

made a path

of light.

Summer Nights

Those summer nights I

sat nursing the baby,

looking down on the

street light shining green

through the leaves.

 

Blood Will Tell

Self Portrait by Henry Cleage

We were standing on the dirt road

in front of his house

when Henry said, if blood

will tell, I should be able

to dance a jig.  And

he danced a jig.

The Hawk

Print by Utagawa Hiroshige 1857

There was a poem in the

crow (or was it a starling?) circling

my yard, landing on my neighbor’s tree.

I could see a poem in the

golden hawk sitting on a branch,

flying off, tracked by three

black birds (or crows

or starlings.).

The three birds (and

the poem) weaving around

him.

Early Morning

Early morning. Two

birds clear voices. Call

and response. I listen,

knowing I can’t hear half

of the conversation.

What color is the sky

before the sunrises?

apricot yellow? Pale

blue/white?

I put the card in

the mailbox, pick

up a red leave. Think of

poems.

Puddles

The rain fills

every hole in

the bricks,

making tiny

puddles, my

feet dry inside.