Poetry

The leaves
 Are amassed
 In a mound

I had a dream of falling
 From a dream chair

Collections of things
 Require, first
 A Taxonomy

The cloud speaks to the rain
 In curiosity
 Of tidings nearer earth
 And what may lie below

The smell of Wet earth and grass

The whispers of a storm
 Far out to sea
 Mumble across brown sugar sand

Squirrel
 Squirrel
 Where do you go

Cars Are meant To move

I don’t feel like creating
 And I’ve run out of
 Things to consume