The best poem I’ll ever write is the one I’ll never write. It’s the one I’ll write only in my head, under the influence of bicycling, which apparently is for me as potent as the more illicit highs other writers have pursued for inspiration.

The swimming green leaves of late spring provide an oeuvre of color.

And that’s how childhood seems to me, a place more than a time. I still dream about certain things: the creek, the cherry tree in the backyard, the concrete front stoop that was a clean, if somewhat bumpy, slate for drawing.

These images, taken of natural items presented in, growing through, or surrounded by an urban landscape, give a visual, Earthy collage for the viewer.