if change will happen it will
happen now whenever
it happens so simple
yet still fear stays
the turn in the dance
the conversation the poem
where change shifts without
the moment noticed within
light which drifts through a window
or rose petals scattered
across an afternoon floor
oblivious as a sleeping cat
(November 1, 2019)
drinking beer with an old friend,
memoir’s lost chapters
(September 29, 2019)
from “Renditions of Change,” a work in progress
Before he moves,
he waits on time,
listening for a breath.
He moves still
his mind wanders
across the valley
to the next mountain.
Discontent breeds desire.
He sits stiffly
here and there:
(May 20, 2019)
Too near-sighted to see
a larger view, he holds
close to the present.
He has no memory
beyond now; but
with tight-curled fingers,
it is edge enough,
if only for a moment,
to hang a life upon.
(March 30, 2019)
Like flowers in a slow conversation’s
eddy, he floats through his circular day.
Nothing’s amiss. Almost, as memory,
the pattern persists; almost as if he
whispers to someone who listens nearby.
Each flower’s petals fall, by troubled turns,
until the air is not enough to hold
the incoherent world; and, like glass,
it shatters into the composting earth,
oblivious to its own slow demise.
The flower unfolds into its silence;
the swift flutter of bird song in the trees;
the rough caress of dry leaf on dry leaf;
the winter wind’s incessant pulse and pause;
are nothing to his flower’s petal’s fall.
(March 20, 2019)