Last day of the month—
 
my almost-ripe tomatoes
 
fall prey to a rat.

 
 
 

Late-August dreaming:
 
I filch a ripe purple plum
 
from a bowl of fruit.

 
 
 

Afghan refugees—
 
only the clothes on their backs
 
and some songs from home

 
 
 

Over tea at dawn
 
we tell each other our dreams,
 
embellishing them.

 
 
 

Little by little
 
I make my way through the mist
 
spilled from the mountain.

 
 
 

Pandemic lockdown—
 
sunlight sneaks through the window
 
for a quick visit.

 
 
 

Dewy spiderwebs
 
shimmer in the morning light,
 
to a child’s delight.

 
 
 

Imagine yourself
 
becoming a lonesome dove
 
with no nest, no mate.

 
 
 

my Kansas childhood
 
gifted with meadowlark song
 
and the restless wind

 
 
 

full moon, empty mouth—
 
my granddaughter’s first lost tooth
 
under her pillow