aged

there is an age when we must look at our past not to find where blame lay- the worst after all; this blindness. we must look at our past- see with today eyes so that we do not- oh heaven- grow aged in this...

who am I

who am i the poet bemoans the awe and this poet hearing the rushing of rubber against the light early chirp with fluffed pillows and warmed fingers wrapped around steam this poet too asks who am i this life seems almost too short some days and others as if...

oh I must!

hold this brush stroke it just so here bake these scones smile at these guests clear these branches mow this lawn organize these papers arrange these books so clean these sheets dust these shelves listen to these sounds see this life. as the sun must shine so there....