Poems

Futilities

Enough rain
and every route
becomes an obstacle,

tracks turn to creeks,
roads to rivers,
the paths impassable.


   *

From a neighbor’s yard
the dull thud of walnuts,
the dead sound of digging,
an adult male voice
amused and scornful.


   *

Almost done!
Almost done!
You’re always
almost done,
...