Footprints appear, fade / melt into mud, reform, fade / Grass grows in old snow

The wind outruns me, / turns, blows the white pear blossoms. / I bike through the cloud.

In the driveway was / always a gasoline pool, / waiting for a match.

The garden shed is / missing a board, a promise / that I couldn't keep.

He skipped the party. / The stories couldn't compete / with the cicadas.

I said, "It's just grass." / She said, "It's a metaphor." / "My eyes are itchy."

'Till the last one dies / these cicadas sing with me. / I'll stop when they do.

The cool little pond / accepted all of her tears / and never complained.

I'm sure that dress was / meant to be worn in the rain, / I thought as she left.

Waiting for the wind / to turn to rain, I watch the / trees shiver and sway

Last night's bar is now / today's coffee shop. Stumble / out. Sleep. Stumble in.

There was no breakfast / and the host was still sleeping. / I left and explored.

Drunk haikus are hard. / I can barely count to seven, / much less to five.

The oak leaf can say, / "I won't turn brown and fall," but / Fall reaps and I rake.

Thought I was Astaire / In a twist, I'm the villain / Thought you were Ginger

You don't like this song / So I play it, watch you cringe / Because that's something

Waiting for a friend / to make me breakfast and say / "Let's make it better."

In her best skirt, she / walked him in the evening heat / in his best fur coat

Four knees, two touching / A mirror romance played out / under the table

Leaf buds ev'rywhere / refuse to wait for the last / piles of snow to melt.

You might be a muse / What does it mean when my heart / beats five, seven, five?

We thought the thawing / ground would give us spring tulips, / but it was just mud.

Ink dripped and fell, off / my pen, through my poem, and / onto my taxes.

End war and famine? / I'd love to. How about we / make love and breakfast?

The wind knocks me down. / It's only a breeze, but it / carries your perfume.

SCUMBAG UNICODE / FORTY-PLUS FOOD EMOJI / BUT NONE ARE TACOS