CROSSINGS

One of these days I would like to call myself a poet. I can embrace the words 'artist' and 'writer,' but I am still practicing poetry. To me, writing a poem is like painting with words. I like being able to record a moment that made me stop and marvel. While I am practicing, I'll share with you a few of those moments:

A swallow

swoops down to the infield

grabs its catch

soars over the outfield fence.

New construction and new park:

man lying on the grass

stretches his arms above his head.

A moving crane on the road screeches.

A swallowtail

at a cross walk

on a six-lane road

flutters across with the light

reaches the other side,

 just in time:

the light turns red.

On the Iron Horse Trail,

next to the football field,

next to a busy road.

Unexpected music:

a school band plays,

trail walkers pick up their steps,

a car horn blares.

Like a feather in a breeze:

a touch on my leg,

once, twice,

just enough to make me look

down at two inquiring eyes.

My cat,

who rubs my leg,

just enough for attention,

 then walks away.

The flower paintings are etegami, a style I learned in Japan. They are done with watercolor on stiff postcard-sized paper so they can be mailed to friends.

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May peace be with you, Lillian.