Mites
take little bites...

It's morning
though all I can see...

Nothing
but hot air...

The sadness
of self-destruction...

The pastoral symphony
played out...

The rosebuds
have a pink blush...

I'm out of sage
though...

How like bushfires
the drought is...

Floating teardrops across the sky
lovely line...

I recite my poems
to deafening...

My heart
misses a beat...

I miss my children
I miss my wife...