Not much more than
sprightly twigs
green tomato
seed on asphalt
the atoms sprawled across the sky
before they gather in a meeting
and become a cloud
upon unanimous
agreement.
Not much more than
bendy branches
Clay in plastic (on the shelf)
a thousand spider eggs
clear and waking
new colored pencils
sharp and sleeping
in their box
dreaming of their
creamy, unadulterated
paper.
Not much more than
fresh poured Parmesan
(into its earthy grave it goes)
the calendar on January
the pollen on a fat bee’s back
unopened Jiffy smooth
stiffly silent waits
to decorate the faces
of a hundred happy
lunches.
Not much more than
introductions
spring’s first thaw
and crispy jeans
socks still in their pack
by the dreaded plastic knot
uncured ham
cotton sitting on the branch
unbeknownst to be
a suit, a shirt,
an evening gown.
Not much more than
four short stanzas.
not much more
quite yet.