Tim and the Rain on the Glass:

Tim watches the rain
slowly gathering
on the glass

rivers
waterfalls
errant splotches

pooling
gradually

then ebbing
in their own
particularly
way

before another
flood breaks
across the window pane

the lights of passing cars
racing across the fractured sea
scattering copies of themselves
caught for this moment
in a kaleidoscope of tears

muted colors filling the spaces
with a palette of grays and greens

Tim is mesmerized

as he tries
to capture
the vignette

to grasp the way
the lights
and colors
are transformed
by the
rain

Tim breathes in slowly

listening to the drops
hit the glass

delicately drumming
hypnotic
doldrums

sight and sound
flowing
through time

until
Tim decides
to go watch TV

Confounded:

we are isses
thinging

waves
mattering

light
lightly
lighting

all confounded in time

This:

this
will be
short and
to the
point

Tim and the Hole:

Tim sits in the dirt
having abandoned
all sense of propriety

the slightest layer
of dust
coating his jeans
his hands
and his arms
up to his elbows

a ring of dirt
fully absorbed
into the ankles
of his now
less than white
socks

stick in hand
Tim digs deeper

this hole
is the one

it will be the biggest hole
Tim has ever dug

loosening earth
with his crude
wooden
implement
curated
from nature
to help him
conquer
nature

scooping the loose dirt
from the hole with his
bare hands

the pile of extracted soil
wholly insufficient to
fill the void caused by
Tim's ambition

he works as quickly as possible
knowing that the recess bell
will soon ring

Tim knows
that this hole
will be the one

his finest accomplishment

the recess bell rings

Tim assesses his work
as he tries
and fails
to brush the dust
from his pants
and hands
and arms

the hole is just as big
as any hole
that Tim has ever dug

Weeds:

these weeds
were never mistaken
for wheat

no tares as far
as the needle's
eye can see

torn
from the earth

then piled
and burned

forsaken
forgotten
forlorn

these weeds
no longer
a part of me

The Moon:

the golden moon
floating on a sea
of blackest ink

its gentle light
touching nothing
reaching nowhere

glowing all the same

Tim and the Summer Night:

Tim lies on his back

the cool grass

holding him gently

above the cooler

ground

dusk has come

and gone

the night

and it's timid

obscurity

descending

gradually 

in its wake

"timid" because

amid the darkness'

veil

distant lights

of heaven

and Tim's home

(set off

towards the horizon)

hold the full strength

of the night

at bay

as Tim's

day

fades

he is wrapped

in the mixture

of the cool

summer's night

air

the calm

left behind

when the sun

hurried

past the horizon

to attend to

someone else's

tomorrow

and the quiet

of light

shining

unobtrusively

humbly

in the distance

Tim sighs

knowing

it's almost

his bedtime

knowing

the sun will rise

in the morning

knowing

summer

will always

end