Tiny pinprick holes
in the blind at the window
make constellations

Our visitors leave
down the valley side, to the
southern hemisphere

A job will be done
if, my baby, you always
laugh at cats and rain

Cut branches grow back,
weeds return to bared soil, with
something like fierceness

Oh angry driver –
someone should tell you you can't
pick fights with hailstones

A snail at the foot
of a tall tomato plant,
psyching himself up

3pm – the day,
like its first pint, now settling,
clarified at last