I grow lazy about writing poems.
My companion is the detachment of age
(These lines take great effort;
I hope you appreciate this.)
Pleasure is something as simple as
massaging a fleeting care from my brow,
Oh, I see scenes of my past
A boy on a farm, a dog,
a traveler for a time,
a student, a young husband, father,
a striver full of self-doubt
but they are not me any longer
different bodies, different chapters
in a book I’ve closed and
put on a distant shelf.
Even my name, my byline, was important in
small ways, if only to me, my family. Were
someone to call it out,
I cannot say if I would respond.
It would not feel like me any more.
I am moving, moving
as in a deep, mysterious forest of
massive, silent, trees humming
with eternity. But I cannot see far along
this twisting path of no
The clock strikes eleven
the day is sunny and calm
a breeze moves the colorful flags outside
stirs the clematis vines
and strolls through my house
Dragonflies gather at my door
The roses quietly visit the yard with elegance
And my heart is ignorant of all else.