The first day of June—
 
an old grey tabby snoozes
 
in the noonday sun.

 
 
 

End-of-May shower—
 
the shovel I left outside
 
wears a shroud of rust.

 
 
 

The poems I make
 
will not last nearly as long
 
as the spring mountains.

 
 
 

Memorial Day—
 
even names engraved in stone
 
can be forgotten.

 
 
 

Holiday weekend—
 
my neighbor’s dog barks nonstop,
 
shattering the peace.

 
 
 

Pleasant spring surprise—
 
from someone long forgotten,
 
a letter arrives.

 
 
 

seven May mornings
 
when the finches didn’t sing—
 
grey and dreary hours

 
 
 

Waxing crescent moon,
 
by your light I plainly see
 
these white primroses.

 
 
 

From a hotel room
 
with smudged and dirty windows,
 
I see sweet peas bloom.

 
 
 

If I were a cup
 
empty after spring’s great feast,
 
who would fill me up?