by Kelly

six years together

his Vietnamese love songs

now so familiar

by Kelly

endless phone calls but

out my window chickadees

jockey for prime seeds

by Kelly

spring knocks as do these

rumors of a troubled ex —

I open the door

by Kelly

something unknown sounds –

curled up touching me he growls

low, long, readying

by Kelly

stubborn gnarly oak

still refusing to give up

last year’s greenery

by Kelly

I don’t trust this sun,

this melting, this warmth, this is

still Minnesota.

by Kelly

I disobey my

doctor, tilt my head straight up

to gulp the March sun.

by Kelly

I tromp through the snow

seeded bird feeder in hand –

I’ve become my dad.

The news from Chile is eclipsing the news from New Hampshire.
Alison is still without power, I’m assuming, otherwise she’d be
posting her own little poems. The last time we spoke, her cell phone
was almost out of juice. However . . .

Haiku Must Go On!

And so … once again, I’ve penned a short verse in Alison’s honor:

She’s sick of playing

Little House on the Prairie.

When can she go home?

by Kelly

she licks the crook of

my arm like she’s giving me

an IV of love