My rapid breathing
louder then the wind—
I’m losing the race.
Another gray day
like the one before—
the clock has stopped.
Under the giant tree
Grandpa’s spring covered with leaves—
Who else knows about it?
Full Summer moon
gazing back at the curious children
the owl with broken wing.
Cold November rain—
under the dried tomato plants
a bud of a late comer.
On the first day of Spring
hail batters the windows—
I wake up from a nightmare.
The North wind
batters my face—
I daydream of winning lottery.
