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Late Winter Grass

Verdant blades mingled with white

Promises of that yet to come.

Shrouded in the cold of ice

Yet sparking the warmest of dreams.

Waiting for rays of warmth

And fields of daffodils.

Longing for warm kisses on my cheek

And the wind across the back of my neck.

Oh little green stalk standing so bravely

Please tell me when your friends will arrive.

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Sorrow

In the deepest recess

Where shadows hide,

The faded memories.

What tales are told

And reconstructed,

Tinged with sorrow.

Good-byes never said,

Nor ever wanted.

Both for living and dead.

That place that haunts us.

 

Years of My Youth

They call it a crisis, middle age

But I see no crisis, just history.

The years to go equal those past

And now, with knowledge

We know it can’t forever last.

.

There have been heartbreaks, pain

And the years have begun to etch

Permanently upon the edges of my face.

But I can still look back, with just little sadness

At the years of my youth,

When the sun filled my heart with gladness.

.

The days of the impossible

Because there was no limit to my heart.

Chasing butterflies and other creatures

Or listening to the distant lark.

Laying in the grass and having not a care.

Waiting for the night, fireflies

And the moon’s luminous glare.

.

Yes, the days of dreams and possibilities

That once colored the years of my youth.

And though those dreams still live,

Nestled deep in my heart.

I find they are a little farther away

And years have grown us apart.

.

No, my friends, I tell you true,

I am not in crisis because I have aged

Though I am sure it looks it to you.

I merely think back longingly

At all that has come to pass.

The generations I have missed

And the dreams, yes, the dreams,

That have passed by a little too fast.

 

Quiet Reflection

The air brushes my cheek

As I sit by the glass lake.

Reflections of the present

Marching by…

A bird,

A butterfly

A white cloud.

A simple touch

Would ripple the water.

So I reach out with my mind,

Into the stillness.

Feeling the cool water

Inhaling the fresh summer air,

Dreaming as the sun kisses my skin.

The torrent of my mind stills,

Until it too sits quietly.

Devoted to the nothingness.

No sirens.

No screams.

No pain.

Just blissful emptiness.

On Feathered Wings

On feathered wings,

The old year sails

Into the darkness of history.

And I stare at the cold sky

Star twinkling.

The majestic awe of insignificance.

The change where no change has happened,

Except perchance my own time.

Another few grains through

An hourglass.

And I know mine grow shorter.

But my hope remains

Like time itself,

Eternal.

Perfect shape, sitting

On the sidewalk where I roam

Fallen from heaven.

.

I stop and ponder

Wondering where you’ve traveled.

Only to fall here.

.

So small and precious

Founder of lakes and oceans,

Forming mighty stream.

.

Yet sitting here now,

Waiting for the clouds to fade,

In silent repose.

The light of day fades

And I stand, staring at the sun.

Hues of pink, purple and orange

Cascading to the horizon.

The trees lose definition in the distance

As they become a dark mass.

Slowly, small pin pricks of light

Begin to dot the night sky.

And I stand under the canvas

Painted across the heavens.

Breathing deeply I feel the cold air

Immersing my lungs.

For that moment my burden sail,

Flying up to the night and the moon

And my mind floats freely.

For that moment

I am unbound from earthly chains

I soar among the lights of heaven.

And that makes all the difference.