I wrote those poems on impulse
walking around the trees in Walnut Creek
lost in a wonderland of mind
I found comfort in God.
I burned all the wobbly words
like cutting up dead branches
I'm still here/there
December at Yase
Snyder stands out like sea glass
on a gloomy day and
I'm caught between looking back at us
and memories of a story that shouldn't
have happened but did anyway.
With feet wet from rain
and cold in the air
I wonder if or when I'll paint again.