Sausages

I see I will get a 
postcard from you 
today. 
Your father is planning 
to go to the market, 
but 
I will
still need 
eight 
sausages 
whenever you go to the 
butcher shop.

Found poem from an email December 13, 2017.

Too Late

I should have written this poem
two days ago when the
trees were faint chartreuse clouds, a
dogwood gleaming white
through the haze, 
wisteria high above the houses 
in the pine branches.

But I didn't and today
the leaves are
tending towards their
summer green. Hiding 
spring.