planters await potting soil

and thrusted starters,

hand-sculpted with hope & love

burgeoning green buds

on the honey locust

frame a golfer’s errant swing

rhinestone cat eye glasses

— the Abyssinian model,

for a glamorous touch of chic

demolition in the infringing distance

land cleared for ugly manmade structures

at what price, people, at what price?

scissors, fabric & glue

cardstock, a little imagination

buttoned makeshift pocket

perfect for hidden treasure

encroaching mist

the 2^nd hole

all but disappears

charred mouse

dangles precariously

singed rafters

one family’s altered plans

I let the water run—

perhaps too long.

soapy residue:  all gone.

some mornings I feel so antigua

it translates to ‘old’ or ‘ancient’

by naming myself thus, however,

I hope to sprinkle

a bit of mystique, as in

will this day be the day?