kenneth hart

3 Poems

This morning the sky takes on the look of one of those inspirational calendars, all illuminated-edged cumulous with light rays stabbing through like purifying swords, His Glory in pastel script right about where my neighbor’s SUVs are parked out back, one black, one silver, miracles of engineering, collecting light and splotches of berry puree from the chickadees singing high hosannahs in the overhanging branches.