Ink Tea Stone Leaf

This July, I’m going to write a short poem (or a long one, who knows?) every day. I’ll post them once a week until the month is over. That pretty much explains it, I think.

July 4th, 2026

Charcoal briquettes, each
laid in the best position,
glow in harmony.

July 5th, 2026

Winning one in every seven games
is just not sustainable, my dudes—
a wild card will usually require
a record well above five hundred.

July 6th, 2026

I hear a sound across the room—
or rather, I've been hearing noise,
but only now I realize
that I don't know what's making it
and that is disconcerting—
I cannot afford to replace whatever's about to explode—
imagine my relief,
it's just the bread machine,
of course,
I forgot my wife was making bread.

July 7th, 2026

To keep a creature well inside your home,
you must become
the arbiter of day and night,
the hand that makes the waters flow
and measures food and medicine,
the mind that knows what needs be known,
the heart that loves
and follows through
no matter how small the creature,
no matter how brief or long.

July 8th, 2026

Twilight slips through the grasp of day
and night comes on like sinking sand

yes, in summer as in winter,
the hours must follow fallen hours.

July 9th, 2026

The dancing cherry trees, I deem
their leaves a rippling dress—
they ruffle gaily in the stream
of morning wind's caress.

July 10th, 2026

The mouth of heaven kisses
with kind, tender lips,
and breathes such warm air
upon my skin, I shiver.
Living in the present
makes for better memories.