Four Thoughts


The moons, a thousand of them
Gathered in the frost
Tossed upon the pane
And spread across the room
Their light.
The light, a thousand bits
Joined into one glow
And gave the darkened room
Their light.


* * *


So many trees
So singular of purpose.
Ah, the variety of design.

* * *

The gravel lane
That lay along
And up the hill
Did its purpose well,
Inviting forth the rider
And the writer back
From the asphalt
Straight and flat.

* * *


On the well trod walk or road
The many ruts are deep.
I shall not know what made them all
Before it's time to sleep.

* * *

~ Michael Bahm ~

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