by Jonathan Greene 

In an avenue of trees
dead ones
hugging live ones,
holding on,
their tops
crying together in high wind.
Old loves or
old adversaries ?
From youth,
years of working together
against gravity.
The dead held up from
their eventual descents
by entwined trunks, branches,
grapevines, all manner of
wondrous forestalling.

by Jonathan Greene 

After the stroke

the words break up

like wind spreading out sky – writing

cloud snippets floating away

never again words

but wanting to be.

by Jonathan Greene 

Washing the dishes,
looking up —
a lunar moth
against the window.

Often I forget
how close —
this other world.

by Jonathan Greene 

Stayed busy
trying to track
the osprey’s footprints
on the fast – moving river.