Monday, August 17, 2015



The hot morning air –
All the flowers are wilting
Above brown-dry grass

A butterfly is searching
For drops of dew and nectar

Thin clouds, mere specters,
Dissolving before her eyes
Into the vast sky

Seasonal time won’t comply,
(Unlike our calendar years)

Oak leaves, crisp and sere,
Tumble down without a sound
On the sloping mound

No wind, falling to the ground
As daylight hours grow shorter

It’s the last quarter
Of a life of many years
Ghosts of friends appear,

Ghosts from times that I hold dear,
Ghosts of songs that I still hear,

Ghosts that linger here,
Ghosts from dreams, from other spheres,
Ghosts calm and austere,

Ghosts from streams that disappear,
Ghosts resembling a shy deer,

Ghosts from a frontier,
Ghosts are time and time is near,
Ghosts like distant trees

Seen through a cold howling freeze,
Seen through thickly falling snow

Streetlights barely glow
As a neighbor trudges home
After work is through

There was something he should do,
Something he has forgotten

The note he placed in
His shirt pocket has fallen
Out onto the street

When he paused to stop and greet
An old friend he had not seen

For years, though it seemed
That it was just yesterday
When it was routine

They would meet day after day
Exchanging quips and wordplay

But time eats away
At all our expectations,
Time burns like a fire

And all that is required
Is that she waits patiently

Hoping she will see
In the park where they once walked
His approach, his smile

But she’s surrounded for miles
By an emptiness that’s vile

Blossoms fall like tiles
Torn from the plum trees’ branches
In a bitter wind

He offers incense for his sins
And freshly picked daffodils

The courtyard is still
Something glows in the distance
Passing the roofline,

Like a musician keeping time,
Coursing through the dream-filled air

Moonlight, bright and fair,
Waning from full, like a sigh,
Surrounded by clouds

Hovering, like a thin shroud,
Angels’ wings don’t make a sound

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