Poetry

The tenderness of snow flaming

A bobcat creeps between piñon pines

The osprey leans on a high bright wind,

Here is the coin carried by John of the Cross.

He has not much time, maybe minutes.

Bull at a gate in the garden, Peter’s out

He let the flies land freely on his face

I rhyme to see myself, to set the darkness echoing.” Seamus Heaney

For years I’ve knelt at your holy wells

The dictionary names drones