In a milk glass vase
 
a dozen red roses fade
 
along with the month.

 

 
 
 

In a crooked place
 
I find a flint arrowhead,
 
straight and sharp and true.

 

 
 
 

Nudged by a spring breeze,
 
a wayward paper napkin
 
moves from door to door.

 

 
 
 

Palm Sunday longing:
 
to be a lifelong pilgrim
 
on the praise-strewn way!

 

 
 

On a warm spring day

the path to distant mountains

whispers to my feet.

 

 
 
 

The ants keep busy,
 
no matter what the weather,
 
aboveground, below.
 

 
 
 

A rotting fencepost,
 
brittle weeds choking a field—
 
how can I not sing?

 
 
 

First full week of spring—
 
already the cottonwoods
 
flaunt some bright green leaves.

 
 
 

While painting the fence,
 
I hear some children laughing
 
on the other side.

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
sing to my ailing plum tree;
 
make it well again.