“The Brew”

I look at the machine.

It’s... plastic. Black.

Waiting.

You take the scoop.

Now, this is important. The grounds? They have to be... precise.

If you don't... measure?

Well.

Disaster. Obviously.

You pour the water. In the back.

It makes a sound. A gurgle. Like a... wounded bird.

But efficient.

The drip.

...

The drop.

...

It takes... time.

And then? You drink it.

Wishful thinking
The warm days
In the fall are over
Now I have to
Be thankful
For the warm days
My Father gave to me
Now the warm days are over
And the leaves are changing
Its color
From green to gold
Yes there are some dead leaves
In the ground
Some people are raking
The dead leaves
Couple more days
And thangs giving will
Be here
We will share a meal with
Our families
And at the same time
We will give thanks to God
For what we have
There is no body else that
Made the nature
So beautiful like God did

'Late Cup'

day thins on toothy edges, 
each request arrives, softening contours.
Still, hands move in steady patterns, 
carrying out what the moment asks
while the inner field settles
into quieted grain.

a cup waits on the bench, 
its position unchanged, 
holding a small shift of light
room adjusting around it rim
body and mind follow that adjustment, 
working through each hour
with same steady mutedness.

My wings flutter, 
cutting through a vein.
The tang of blood flows into my mouth,
burning down my throat.
All I can do is swallow it up
until my stomach bursts,
and I become what feeds the starving land.

crocus buds burst forth
peep and poke through dunes of white
winter bows to spring

when the sun begins to shine again
vital truths on wood-lined paths arise

.