The snapping turtle’s
babies – treat them with respect.
They may remember.

165

The far bank seems near
today. Small things see me and
do not run away.

166

No one on the beach
to tell of the gray creature
who rose and saw me.

123

The turtle’s slow pace
carries him out of sight – gone,
brings him back again.

197

Gray mosquito draws
silver sipping from black pond.
Stillness settles down.

160

Beech and memory
shade me from light; sky floats
upon dark water.

162

Black pond at dusk – still.
Somber sunset: burnt, ashen.
Splash alone lives on.

163

 

®Copyright 1966 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.
From Poemystic.com