Small Signs of Hope: My tomatoes in hope were displayed In bright sun on the sill, not in shade But they froze in the night And will never be ripe Thus my dreams of caprese waylaid.
Small signs of hope in the coming apocalypse: I lose count after My high-country respite Back home, countless failed haiku Flaunt their abundant profusion Unprunable syllables murmur Sweet somethings that cry out when I cut them Then taunt me with catcalls, cocked hips, air kisses Too many to count
