Midnight in the Fakahatchee Preserve
Like a searchlight,
the moon
moves over the swamp,
spies a ghost orchid,
lingers, and lets
white on white
mirror one another
in the black of night.
The moon sees a star
misplaced on earth.
The orchid sees an epiphyte
lost in the sky,
looking for its way home.
(Published by Everyday Poets)
Night Magic
Passing under
streetlights
with my arms out,
Peter Pan's shadow
flits here, there —
and I'm flying.
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To Toast Or Not To Toast
I'm making toast.
Do you want some? he asks.
I look up and say, Hmm…
I had a late lunch.
My husband shakes his head.
I'm not sure…
He throws his hands up—
It's not a declaration of war,
it's just a piece of toast,
and he stalks off.
He returns and says, I'm sorry.
I forgot how your brain works.
I ask a question and you answer:
Well . . . it's March, but it's Friday.
Is it raining? Let me think . . .
I look up and say,
Yes, I'd love a piece of toast.
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