Year Breaths

 

Yew lays on my crown

Two sun warmed dense feather hands;

A confirmation.

 

Imagination’s 

Touch of rain on a harebell;

The flower drum song.

 

On sunburnt highways

Poppies burst into being

Bright sears of blood.

 

The dragon autumn

Has his tongue among the trees;

Leaves begin to burn.

 

Like unshaded lamps 

In sudden gusts of wind

Chased roses blow out.

 

A gentle juggler, 

Spinning clouds of light crystals,

Spirits the path white.