lamb's ears

Wet behind the ears, gentle

as a lamb – innocence wrapped

in silver paper, tied with

remembering string knotted

on ancient knuckles.  He may

not know their names any more

(Time has seen to that), but he

could tell them just when to cut

the wheat, where to find the best

Saskatoon bushes – bent like

beasts of burden beneath their

berry up-dos – how to get

the last  drop of sweet milk from

that skittish cow. His silver

mane beads with the effort at

recollection; memory,

ephemeral wisp, drips off

like sweat on yesterday’s dust.


This is a leaf from a ‘Lamb’s Ear’ plant…




Demure damask,

ubiquitous ruffles

cloak June’s exit

and herald July’s

approach, perfuming

time itself. Petals

will droop in

tomorrow’s heat

(for who of us can stand

against the march?)

but the scent

of rosewater

celebrates not

yesterday or

next week,

but now.




Your world covers your lines

in high-powered ad campaigns

that promise forever young

in a bottle,

the fountain of youth at a cost;

but swallowing emptiness

cannot fill canyons.

In your lines,

I trace the conquest of first love,

baby bottles and funeral baking,

losses and gains

multiplied by loaves and fishes.

No serum

can replace the living

drawn in these lines –

this is no paint-by-number

out of a box,

but an original,

a hand-drawn facsimile

of you. So hang out your laundry,

put it all

on the





When ageing tent is laid aside,

my truest bloom will burst from husk

and, far from laws of earthen tide,

my heart won’t fade into the dusk

but blossom strong, by Love’s design,

free of pest and storm’s alarm;

to my best purposes, aligned,

free to flower, free from harm.


Line By Line


A wrinkle in time

traces linear language,

connecting age spot dots spelling out

the sum total of a life;

creases of compassion

linked to crow’s foot trails

where sorrow and laughter


eloquent epistle,

novel penned hour by hour,

word by word,

line by line.

A Death is Announced


Wisps of frost on aging head,

wrinkled creases, wisdom’s crown;

joints to pain and creaks are wed,

Folds replace a youthful gown.

Even so, her smile is strong

though sorrow lines her blinded eyes;

beauty marks her dying song

as Winter sings her last good-byes.