“The cliché is your enemy.”
–from a handbook on writing

It is not easy to admit this on paper,
but the surface of the lake
is sparkling very much like diamonds,

and I hesitate to say the wind is whispering,
but it seems to be doing something
very close to that this morning.

And if these clouds
do not look like fluffy balls of cotton,
I am not sure what they look like.

On the other hand,
the large, newly drilled hole
halfway up this maple tree

is where a woodpecker
must have worked half a day
just banging away at the good wood,

wings tucked in,
gripping the rough bark,
eyes beady with determination,

his red helmet on
and his metal lunch pail
hanging from a nearby branch.

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