Unlike other deaths,
years do not die from sickness
their time just comes—
perhaps a little weary
from a twelvemonth of toil
but neither sad nor glad to go;
'Tis been a pleasure to be of service,
the faithful companion old year says
with a bow as he parts
And seamlessly the new is born
with experience somehow already in hand
to begin the first January morn.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Monday, December 28, 2015
Saturday, December 26, 2015
Some days my soul is windy,
blowing the dying leaves
off my aging bones.
My heart aches,
but it's winter pains —
nothing a little spring won't cure.
Sometimes a dandelion blows my way
from a neighboring soul
and makes me wonder —
what of mine drifts through life
to strangers or kin
going through their own
If the clouds blow away
and the skies become blue again
and the sun gets a little too harsh
and my hair instead turns gray,
would I yearn for another storm?
And should I be thankful for clothes
to protect my naked body
or has too much protection
prevented me from the full potential
of my skittish and unclothed mind?