On Lothlorien Poetry Journals.

The Arts

And, over time

I began to think

of the bench

as mine.

It sits grey-green

at the edge

of Spring Creek,

in a small park

rarely peopled during the week.

Weeping Willows

temper the sun

and tame the winds.

Last night

the temperature dropped

thirty degrees

and in the early morning

my bench sparkles

with hoar frost.

The park —

my poetry,

The creek —

my music,

and the willows—

my art.