My streams of thought meet here
poplar shoots punch holes in our driveway combat zone three robins debate worm ownership long division her sister says gray she calls it charcoal they argue for hours
funky new outfit scorning people’s stares wanting them to look
tattered blinds cover all the windows broken dishes
boy with B-B gun
aiming at the moon
big game hunter
young child
playing checkers with grandpa
bifocals
in the boy’s hand
fascinating frog, nickel a peek
peewee Barnum
half the morning
coffee and crosswords
newly retired
barbed-wire fence
wears its fall wreath today
captured tumbleweeds
mourning dove
forever asking who
ever wonder why?
wren melodies
pour in my open window
bubble tea
thistle burrs
fasten on all who pass
besetting sins
tumbleweed
caught in a wailing wind
hobo in a box car
all the books
I hope to read someday
paper airplanes
summer breezes
give way to autumn winds
children try their wings
prints on the window
the thief didn’t get away
spot free
tambourine player
her earrings keeping time
with her hands
cheerful cricket
praising autumn’s bounty
dead and dying things
self-appointed
president frog
grabs the fattest flies
For some reason this morning I started to think about the four years we lived in Montréal, riding the subway, visiting the Old Port, the street musicians. Here are a few memories…
Old Port buskers
captivating Andes flutes
drummer a beat behind
stilt man
steps up his McGill tuition
future architect
subway guitar player
revs up as we pass
notes in his case
“just a dollar madam
milk for my little girl”
here’s hoping
dusty old derelict
his haunting “Oh Danny Boy”
pulls out tears and toonies
shivering beggar
on a downtown street
I donate my lunch
Latino singer
my silly feet start dancing
“ba ba bamba”
Christine's Collection 