75/365: gas station in rain

it's raining and the thing to do it seems
is to stand out in it
while the tank fills, pump clicking
gas rushing.

each drop that falls
strikes my hair like a light finger tap -
like someone standing behind me,
perhaps on a stool
tentatively touching here, then there,
unsure.

the other pumpers stand under the roofs
not watching-watching me -
but this is a thoughtful sprinkling
not a downpour.

it is worthy of consideration.

74/365: hands

cracked skin old man hands
fingers wrap an axe handle -
strength has not fled yet.

46/365: first hours

in the first hours of morning
they say the mind is soaked
in its own dew.

things are undone in the night:

bows untied, and the ribbon left dangling
from the back of a white dress;

there is a gap in the fence
where slats have been removed -
no twisted nails, rusted heads looking
in all directions -
the weathered wood is just gone.

are your feet wet?
is that a blade
of grass on your toe?
where were you walking to
when I saw/was you in the moonlight?

73/365: blueberry morning

how the year of poems
rolls over into a third year

"lower your standards" is the advice
I give, but have difficulty following

the blueberries cooked black
in my oatmeal
burst with purple blood.

this is a thing I can comment about
all the rest seems too large -
why we exist here on this rock,
why we exist at all.

a comment on blueberries bursting
and no comment on eternity.