A sea-creature so small,
seeming an afterthought
of the Creator, it calls
the ocean floor to reach
one final resting stone.
It struggles on by sheer will,
tiny feet jiggle forward,
propel the amber shell
into a proper niche.
The shell flaps helpless
like a hobbled angel-wing
in the ocean’s chill downdrafts.
Anchored at last, the Codicil
survives between sand-ridges
worn by waves of the past
long since blotted on shore,
and, gathering on bits of flotsam,
mates in haste and dies;
the trace of its armor
leaves one last gold dab,
testament to a brief stay.

Blue Bells

Of course they’re weeds:
no one plants blue-winged wasps
(two anthers shamming the antennae)
between yellow doilies of wool sorrel.
One day there’s nothing—
look again, shiny lancet leaves
in afternoon green poke through;
morning showers blue sparks on the yard.
They’re street flowers, casual friends
you nod to on your way: too small
to buttonhole, too abashed
to pose for a centerpiece.
Street kids that slip outside each July
to play hide and seek, stoop tag,
sporting blue headbands and green trees,
they skip through our alleyways.