she who is be-i-ng

round and round the garden,

(of Eden?) we teddy bears:

one step, two step, life

tickles us here and there

and as (not) funny as it is,

how we laugh at ourselves

Hey! Diddle, Diddle,

is it the inside jokes,

or the outside voice,

that is what matters

most? That rhyme of

the riddle dancing to

This Spring, sans a zephyr's soft

song full, filled with bird's

buoyant beaky blasts, is silent,

shallow, somehow sorrowing

storms ceaseless cacophony -

calling Summer save the day but

bent flower heads mourn the

broken weathers worrisome - why

is the sky steamy, sullen, still,

June, should not be a hard month

filled with wars and dread and

bloodshed, yet here we are,

not coloring June with flowers

and a gentle rain to green

the grasses, to tickle our feet,

fleeing from the bees, too

scarce, but not scarcer than

the flirty fireflies that

should light up June with

a twinkling, mirrored by

In the same old sky, there is

a new moon; June has

arrived before the chill has

left, but the birds,