Trees

What
do trees
dream?

To hold
a fork,
a pen,
another?

Now
imagine
the shadows
cast by crows
dreaming.

Petal-like

everything
everyone
at some time
dreams of being
petal-like
isn't that so

so here a bunch
of grapes
not fearing
harvest
but dreaming
of becoming

Feathers

Feathers of the Great Rain Bird spotted recently in Yerba Buena Gardens.
Soon thoughts of lunch and a line or two for a poem.
Some poems are steady.
Some intermittent.

Landfill

To be precise, Our Lady of the Landfill (The Albany Bulb).
Just like a fine meal or a poem which works, this assemblage has heart & vision.
Nothing else needs saying.

Poinsettia

Which Christmas was poinsettia free?

The answer is just like a blink poem.  None.
Always potted though.

On a usual walking route in San Francisco,  I unexpectedly spot a poinsettia bush.  Or is it a tree? That's like trying to discern the difference between a hearty soup & a stew.  Perhaps, discerning prose poetry & a poem.

Timer

Precise as a Swizz watch.  How does the Christmas catcus know when to bloom?

What would it happen if poems acted such?

Set the table with the Christmas cactus.
Set the timer for the simple & satsifying pizza.

Satisfying time, indeed.  You can count on it.

Eyes

What the eyes see are reliable
as what a tongue tastes
or what ears hear of a poem

With our recent drought, the water was imagined.  Here's the actual scenario at Albany Bulb,
trash included.