I. Looking out her window in the gray November,
She saw the squirrel in his leafless tree,
fretting, nattering constantly
She heard the goose's call resound
As rhythmic wings carried him through space.
Bringing him to a warmer place.
Her tears held the page in place
A torrent of emotion obscured its face,
In words smeared and blurred
Their meaning lost.
The page was
Torn,
Mangled,
Tossed
Into the space of memory.
For those without dogma it's still okay
To have a Merry Christmas on Christmas Day
to the summit i soar and my wings
are clipped
i fall thrashing and spinning.
inevitable defeat.
Be careful what you wish for
For it could soon be yours
And once you have it in your hand
You may not want it anymore.
How fresh ‘tis after morning rain!
Re-creation of new day.
The storm has passed and washed the stain
Of yesterday away.
photo credit: Sasin Tipchai
I think the tears at last are gone …
Until the time I love again.
In Memory of Lance Paquette || September 5, 1975 - April 1, 1997
My sweet dark eyed boy tell me.
Where are you now?