Evening Constitutional

On a walk with the children tonight there was no quiet—
Their thoughts like geysers erupted into the cool night air.
We sauntered in their mist—
Every second on the second—
Gallons of verbiage.

One day I will take a walk and it will be too quiet—
The only hand left to hold will be Time’s.
I will stop and close my eyes—
And there,
I shall stand amongst a thousand geysers—
I will be old, alone, and smiling.

Planting Poems

Is the poet a gardener of summer flowers
or an arborist who cultivates much deeper roots?

Either way,
each flower of a poem fades
and eventually the great redwood of a poem is lost
(though that seems sadder).

But for a time,
how beautiful,
how remarkable—
Like the bouquet I set before me today;
or the one tree I planted years ago
and every winter stays green.

Overtime

In the lazy haze of dawn
The golden sunlight came along

Sauntering, she woke the wood
Long at work, I understood—

(When sliver of the silver moon
Emerged like wings from cocoon)

Sunlight both at walk and flight
As when its day it’s also night