Sandhill Cranes

Swaying red poppies,
The sandhill cranes make their way 
Pacing so slowly;
Such days are gifts to watch traipse,
Though always away from me.

Myrtle and Magnolia

The master grafted
A myrtle branch to a bough
Of magnolia;
At times more white blooms than black,
But the forms their mixture makes!

Deeper, narrower,
Remote as Weeki Wachee's
Caves are my love's straits.
Inaccessible, and yet
The dream is to descend there.

Creatures of mischief
Sit at the great game's table
While blazing spirits
Rage beneath the surface. Joy:
The geyser, Fate's to control.