The horse I am now
a slowly plodding swayback
will take no riders.

September arrives
walking backward through the door
not even knocking.

Into the petal
of the rose the hornet strikes
a familiar pose.
–Frog on the Bay

What things seem to last?
Streaks of light in morning mist
laughter on the lake.
–Counting Snowflakes

With my blackthorn cane
I point to where the moon should rise
and sure enough it does.
–Bird's Nest

Old age enters on stage
he is torn and oddly frayed
and says his only line.

Gary Busha is a poet, editor, and publisher who lived in Eau Claire during the middle 1970s. To see more of Gary’s work look here. Contact gbusha@wi.rr.com for info on these poems and purchase. See Gary’s website at garycbusha.wordpress.com.