Tom's Cube

Vitality springing from their heads like greek gods

The team of various parts decend on the small space

Scurrying here and there, taping, cutting, teasing

So often operating in their spaces of self tonight they merge

Into a singular organism with a view on a common goal

Taking bits of each, mixing it and producing the next generation

Rising from the chaos, the tatered pieces, the perfect joke

Swimming hole

She steps slowly into the cold water
Excitement erupting from every pore
Through shivering teeth
behind blue lips she exclaims
I'm not cold, I want to swim more

Thunderhead

Clear hot sky with only a small cloud way across the valley
Temperature falls, air rushing with an edge as the cloud rises
A misty wall appears then approaches, sweeping the lake's surface
Flashes of light, tree shattering cracks and ice falls ever nearer
Rainbow fish now biting and getting bigger, no need to move just yet

Job Interview

He's sitting there, waiting, wiating for the future
New tatoo's ornate his forearms though his roof is gray
Confident patter quickly changes to nervous utterance
As problems of math and technology stare him in the eye
Now he sits pondering the past while we determine his future

Arch Nemesis

In the choicest place of the yard the earth erupts

Pushed during the night by the little mole, again

Never see him but it's clear where he's been

In a war of attrition the victor is seldom the biggest

Honey Bees

The mock orange tree by the window is in full bloom,
dark green leaves behind large grape-clusters of white flowers
Bees work everyone they touch, feelers feeling along the path
Their long tounges rapidly enter the fragrant fleshy folds
Often tumbling with the tiny nectar cups as they pull loose
Though not falling too far before grabbing onto the next meal
The ground is covered with a multitude of browning spent petals
 

Early Morning

The unseen killdeer is softly chirping just overhead
The air is cool and crisp yet moist like a fresh chilled apple
The velvet black sky gives way to a continuum of blues on the horizon
The mossy turf gives easily, all is very still, very quiet