frozen strawberries
set out in the A/C and sun
grow Santa Claus beards

Copse

I pass trunk to trunk with a rhythm
like a pulse, pine gum on my legs
I sit on a damp orange bed of needles
spread my back against vertical bark
I am held by the conifer grove
feel secure to know that the roots
spread under me to the horizon
that I am contained in the depth
of layered limbs which stretch out
beyond me as I am one cell,
my positive ions exchanged
for ever new air and skin.

Japanese Garden

carp, the living flowers, pucker up
swish coy fans in watery shadows
as walking is made by footsteps
life is made by the motion and pause
mid-stride shifting of weight
off the ground suspended
faith restored that ground
will remain for a while
with each letting down
the weight of each sole.

(not a literary endeavor)

muffin top men

it would be too easy to make
a cracks about their back beltlines.
they could use a little less baking.
so does the lady in the poured tight
muffin paper skirt. Her spaghettini
strap-back shirt, daring as
the scrappy look in her eye,
the miniskirt strapped on
on the tool belt line just under
her hips, bones shifting under the
padded comfortor silk of her skin
she swings with pride of comfort
with herself, nonchalant unless provoked.
like construction workers of old
she expects whistles. And gives them
to the road crew’s love handles
turn to watch her pass wind.