Poetry: Ron Peat

Poetry: Francine Dvoracek




What more masks of ourselves
do we discover
while wondering wonderful dreams
(sometimes they come true)
leaping at the bait that’s there
or almost, we think.
Snapping around
in practice of loving
(though it might seem ridiculous
of sorts if the emotion passes).

One does not explain or
justify the storm,
but bask in the gratification
of the sprouts that
(sometimes in the proper season)
follow its rain.
Why ask the winter
to refrain from its madness.
Perhaps it only practices
for the spring.