ILLE MINUTIAE

The Tiny Finger

How possible to be so small
And smaller yet her fingers, toes
Proportioned like a tiny doll
Alive she is too soon to grow

Afraid to hold as she might break
But let one finger down to touch
So tightly held her tiny fist
Imprisoned digit as my heart

……………………………

The Tiny Leaf

In spring, a tiny budding leaf
Its texture smooth with lifelike veins
Bright sun so fragile, colorless
Throughout the day a varied green

……………………….

The Tree Branch

Incipient bud erupts to twig
The twig leafs out, arrayed in green
Matured to branch new buds erupt
As life is changing always on

Barbara Grace Lake

I grew up during the Great Depression and World War II, joined the WACs at age 18, later married, had 5 children, divorced, and worked in law offices for over 25 years, all the while writing a bit of poetry. I had a short but successful career writing articles for magazines and newspapers, but became tired of constantly trying to impress yet another editor. I've now gone back to my first love, poetry. And that, my friends, is mostly what you will find on my blog, "Poetry and Other Crimes." I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

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