brome – The Morning Porch

December 27, 2013 by Dave Bonta

The sun flickers as thin clouds drift past. In the otherwise still meadow, one bent head of brome grass is swaying.

February 7, 2013 by Dave Bonta

Chickadees scold something hidden in the treetops. I can’t stop looking at a dried bromegrass leaf—its ornate curlicues against the snow.

January 10, 2011 by Dave Bonta

I study the twists and curlicues of dried brome grass against the snow. If I knew Arabic, I’m sure I’d find some of the 99 names of God.

December 4, 2024
After an orange sunrise, in the ordinary light of an overcast morning, the mechanical tapping of a downy woodpecker, the slow wingbeats of a raven.
December 4, 2023
A mottled gray sky all the way to the horizon, not brightening even for the sunrise, let alone for the crows with their many complaints…
December 4, 2022
Still haunted by dreams I can’t remember when the sun clears the ridge and sets the clouds of my breath aglow.
December 4, 2021
Clear except for two contrails, fuzzy with age. Another scrap of gray paper has fallen from the old hornets’ nest, its lines blank as ever.
December 4, 2020
The snow has shrunk to a few spots the low sun doesn’t reach. In the herb bed, the only white is a pile of clippings…