I see
how every word crashes into you,
threatens to capsize you,
flaps at your mainsail,
sends your boom flying across a bow,
leaving your cowering on the deck,
begging for the storm to pass.
Aim for port, where words
are bulwarked by the breakwater,
and tides are tempered.
We’ll tie up in safety;
see?
Mrs. Pickle
taught me much about
acidic Southern charm.
Vitriol dripped from her tongue
like garlic scented vinegar
stirred into syrup: bitter honey.
Against her absurdity, laughter made a bulwark.
A champion rose up,
waving a sword of words that
sliced that pickle into tiny pieces.
A memory to relish.
Well, hello there deer!
What are you doing in the middle of my lane
on the TransCanada Highway?
Deer belong in forests.
Get off the asphalt
before you die.
.
.
A little surprise on my way to work this morning: a large mule deer (I think) right behind the school where I work. He headed into the trees of the river valley after I stopped for him to carry on. Such is life in Canada!
Winter
marching
heavily through spring.
Winter
march
away,
and take
all this falling snow
with you.
.
.
Heavy snow today, making the highway treacherous. Fun drive to work. We’re ready for less white and more warmth in the air!
I had modified a round plastic lamp shade into a bowl by putting a couple pieces of tape across the hole at the bottom. It was sitting out where it had just served as a draw bucket for a game of charades with my drama class.
We were waiting for the bell. Rylee picked up the lamp shade and set it on his head.
Justin looked up and said, “Hey Rylee, feeling a little light headed?”
Shawn L. Bird 