a first date, casual and light; a second date, a magic night; the weeks and months of conversation, stretching into years what is that thing, that people find -- that season in their hearts, that shows how love is made by growing things, and waters from which all life flows
a younger man, he rode a bus across 5 states to see a girl, but she was not impressed by what his penury could give her and so, back home, in his one room, he worked on circuits that became a part of every phone, which she now browses to bemoan her life
the three of them, with faces bright, across a table marked by years, proceeded to recount the ways their lives had brought both joy, and tears -- and laughter rang across the room from voices full, and hearts revealed who knew the love of precious friends who leave no gift ungiven, or sealed
he kissed her only once, and yet the memory burns on of that connection, barely made, that could have changed his sky and folly comes to claim her prize: the second-guessing pawn, whose move are limited by rules he does not know, but lives by
he bought truth low, and sold it high; it should have made him richer -- instead, he had a front row seat to atrophy and fissure a memory of laughing kids who knew not yet the darkness, ere mild spring gave way to age: the glare of summer's harshness
on days like this,
she soars upon the wind
that blows across bright flowers
and down the state
to fields of growing grain;
a young girl's curiosity
and a grown woman's reticence
made one with a breeze that
knows not heartache, but only
movement
generalizing takes so much less energy than thinking seems to so she lives accordingly a person built from labels
She asked me why I spoke like rain that falls in tropics, unobserved, and if I knew the reason why dessert is always lastly served, And I said "I have no idea. And no. At home, I eat pie first, and if I'm hungry, still, eat more, or maybe sit and slake my thirst." She shook her head in sad regard, and said, "You are a mellophone." I knew quite well just what she meant: a mobile horn or baritone, Who specializes in off-beats. I thought then of her piercing gaze, and said, "And you're a golo spear." She smiled broadly, quite unfazed, And said. "How often have you used that metaphor? It seems quite odd." And I said, "Never." "All the same," she spoke, "It feels like pasquinade." And so it was. And so it is: my imitation of a mind that can't be captured anywhere, or anywhere that I can find
The moon was quite insistent, The winter -- in effect, And she was quieter than norm -- More circumspect -- For there are days where nothing Is all you have to give, And sometimes, merely breathing Is all you need To live
