Bad Land

The hills — wearing thin skins of green
and sprouting random pine — seem ready to shed
their grassy garments.  Weather-beaten and gray,
the range folded, creased, and crumbling,
like the rugged terrain of a warrior's face
eroded by wind, work, and sorrow.

Elmo

Sweet, mischievous cat of mine—
eyes like sky on a day divine—

your fur still covers the couch and the floor.
I still look for you guarding the door.

You were the best pal that a heart could hold—
loving, playful, forgiving, and incredibly bold.

Our house is empty since you went away.
The sun shines yellow but my mood is gray.