I’m… sitting here staring out a window. The air has that weird pre-storm humidity you get on cooler summer days. I need to tend the garden. The tomatoes have fun amuck. The squash has colonized its entire bed. And now it’s looking for more.
There’s a bi-plane drifting overhead, low and slow. The sky moans as it passes, the movement of air over wings carrying the puttering of its engine. The bird feeder is empty again.
Outside there is always the disease. People wander the street, maskless and chatting. We are toddlers who need to have our hands burned.
These are poems, here. Where I publish some. Some wind up in other places. I do not organize well. I tend towards the esoteric. Play with language, symbols. There are easter eggs in most every piece. Small rewards for your effort, but… a way to pass the time.
Meantime: I’m just Martin. Staring out a window. Sometimes I write things.
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