At Maple Lake - Spring

(C) R.L.K.

Not anything I made, not these brief things,

but things I saw about the natural world:

I wish that these could hold there, never be gone.

- William Bronk

birdsong drifts downhill;
the maples show a gauzy
green haze of leaftips
while a silver mist shimmers
over the lake at sunrise

Stepping Out for Another Evening

(C) R.L.K.

Day's work done, day's
last light draining
into the street.
Now, you pause a
moment, silent
on the weathered
stair, and wonder:
what is it that
remains of so
much coming and
going? Just the
wind, the motion
of memories?
Just that then. Just.