Pocks mark the green moss; Bark rended from the trees hangs where a young buck rubbed.
I so long await for the splashing springtime rain then lament the wet.
I type a story, to lose yourself in its plot. In a file, it sits.
A poet? Not I. I fling word coins on a page and one nickel stands.
In my head words live. Neurons fire chemical pens. I dream; stories wake.