Poems

Crows, crows, crows, crows 
then the slow flapaway over the hill 
and the dead oak is naked.

n kindergarten during the Cold War,
mid-day late bells jolted us,
sending us single file into the hallway.

It’d been a long winter, rags of snow hanging on; then, at the end
of April, an icy nor’easter, powerful as a hurricane. But now
I’ve landed on the coast of Maine, visiting a friend who lives.

I like poems i never write them but i decides to today because I was having a hard time thing of what to blog about. When I read them I think they are pretty nice.