Grey, scudding skies -
   white bark arises,
      tinted with quaking, green leaves.

What needs saying
      about blue-grey skies
            above pine trees?

a paperclip,
      dusty, on the pavement -
somewhere, an idea runs free.

taking the lane -
   a hundred bike bells
chime under blue skies

The scent of a hundred flowers -
                            walking in the rain
                                       past grazing geese.

Cobwebbed attic,
   all moonglow and dust motes -
the doll stares.

Stars glint
   through shrouded branches -
       ebony eyes still above the limb.