Tom Tico

foghorns . . .
the vague shapes
of familiar trees

beneath purple leaves
the unpicked fruit
stains the sidewalk

after a long stretch of stargazing   first light

around the corner
from the swank nursing home
one for the poor

Valentine’s Day:
my heart favors
the plum blossoms

in this little part
of the solar system
        dust motes

loosening
      the hard and fast lines
            fog

following the lead my elongated shadow

cold park:
so many trees
skeletonized

emphysema –
it could be the name
of an exotic femme fatale
who ends up leaving you
breathless

Easter morning
rising later
than usual

angels’ trumpets
yet here and there
a bit of rust

insomnia . . .
getting to know
the night

the chiaroscuro of crows and morning mist

intermittent rain the long and the short of it

making the most
of the broken-down fence
           nasturtiums

in the world
but not of it –
autumn wind

just another
of winter’s losses –
my singing voice

every bit as black
as the plumage of the crows –
their strident cries