I carry three round river stones, a feather from a bluebird's nest, two copper pennies turned to green, and acorn caps inside my vest. They rattle when I run downhill and whisper when I sit quite still.
My pockets know the secret trails where dandelion clocks blow free, saving small pieces of the yard until the sunset calls for tea. Nothing inside is very grand, but each fits neatly in my hand.
Cloud Builders
The morning wind began to fold the grey clouds into sailing boats, then stretched them out like woolly sheep that leap across the garden moats. A dragon with a smoky tail drifted past the weather vane, blowing mist across the lawn before it melted into rain.
By afternoon the sky was clear, leaving puddles bright and wide where upside-down tall poplar trees and cardboard paper airplanes glide. We jumped across each silver sea until our boots were soaked through right, watching the sky rebuild its towers in shades of lavender and night.
The attic window frames the dark where tree frogs count the yellow stars; sleep comes softly through the screen, quiet as parked toy cars.
Poet One, Notebook Suite