Three Short Poems
Rain patters on the roof and windows.
Inside, I can see my breath.
The wind is brawling violently
As the night sinks black as death.
A fire leaps from the molten glow
Of logs in the fireplace;
With a book and a quilt I sit quietly
And am lost in time and space.
On a bridge o'er a stream a wise man stood
Betwixt a pasture and a thick, dark wood.
He claimed that with a metaphorical cleaver
He'd carve great herds of staunch believers:
"Do away with your exegetical
Rules, and embrace the hypothetical."
At the River*
*Based on e. e. cummings' Untitled: