Crooked, Small was ushered in,

Crooked,  Small grew crooked skin;

Crooked, spine housed crooked soul,

Small saw Straight, desired Whole –

Crooked, Small bowed low to Great,

Crooked, Small lost crooked weight;

Small now grows in rescued bark,

Reclaimed wood, destined for Ark.

Your Time to Season

Your time to season has had its season,

your useful bits have now long gone;

you struggle to rhyme without your reason,

the line in the sand has been overdrawn.

But in your structure, I see a spark

of a cunning, active, tactile mind;

your sunset days will leave their mark,

in beauty you’ll rest, when life’s resigned.


These chives have lost their primary purpose – and yet, in their decline, they are still beautiful.  Don’t you agree?