Uncle Ronnie

Uncle Ronnie cut the last stones.

Alone on the rock, the last mason,

He put a year under his chisel

Until the work was done.

Word Formation

Wind under sky

With no shape
Blows in tomorrow's dust
An advance of rain.

Words cannot frame

The scant origin of cloud.

Nor moisture turn sense

Into utterance.

Earthbound

What I write

In the pages of this place

As if on the walls of a prison

Is simply a poem

Or an epitaph.