It’s summer, and a path is worn from the front door, through the clover, past the shade garden — that quiet harbor of ferns and moss — beneath the pine branch that makes us duck, to the grapevine, apricot, and blueberry bush. And if that does not seem like much, beware, my friend, observe: for that is how paradise is lost.
Dragonfly with one wing gone, swarm of ants bright-red at dawn. Hummingbird.
Categories: New Poems & Pieces