winter: where texture goes to die

beyond corduroy fields,

where the suede bluffs lie,

there’s a crepe paper lake

‘neath a soft cotton sky;

yet these same textures

are hard to recall

when winter’s white blanket

covers them all

–photo by me

paper planes (archives)

i read my poem

to an old friend

he thought it

was about him

it caught me so

off guard when

he began to sob

i had meant it

to be humorous

seeing him cry

brought tears to

my eyes as well

so there we sat

two grown men

sobbing together

over a silly poem

about time travel

* * *

poems are paper planes–

we send them out, not knowing

where they might touch down

–photo by me