Poetry

“Perhaps this is the day…” “Perhaps ideas will spring like blades of grass Pushing forth from winter 's fall…” “That moment of sheer joy…” There is no poetry here. The peeling paintwork

Tender shoots no more may stretch Toward the light, no robust roots To push through soil, and sand ,and loam Where once the fragile buds of spring Formed blossom, nectar laden, Glistening with

The top of the hill is a place where I linger Casting my gaze on the people below Taking my time as I let my eyes wander Nothing to say, and nothing to

Time it is Time it is to hang the light To break the fast, to take the step Time it is to loose the latch To breathe the air, to find the path