Late Spring
Snow fences gone now,
Once held deep in drifted sand,
Set free by tractors.
Across the harbor,
Rising anchor clank clank clanks;
Ferry booms her horn.
Pup leaps through the swash,
No dogs allowed sign ignored--
Not yet people time.
The Mayor
Sits on the front porch,
motioning to passers-by
who stroll through his realm.
Compact bungalow--
homey, humble, hallowed,
two blocks from the beach.
Small, sloped yard, packed with
colorful flowers, wind chimes,
huge round hand-picked rocks.
This strange old hippie,
tall, thin, long-haired, piercing-eyed...
not yet elected.
Not Yet
Ron and John driving,
Not covered wagons, but trucks
Across the country.
Most of our stuff now
Jostling precariously,
Including the dog.
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