The Seasons We Might Call Our Lives

Reverberant anachronism
Strains of Tin Pan Alley lyricism
Played as through a 1940’s radio
(Twixt flashes on the fascist overthrow)
Before you were alive or even thought
Another world, a distant era caught
Between the seasons we might call our lives
While one young set of eyes somehow connives
To make it to a world of ice and snow
For whom old music conjures up no
Long ago

from the threshing floor – 1

once, a cold that tore like nails:
twilight footsteps, frozen mud,

then, a string of lights in blue,
after cold, a hallway clatter,

hands by radiators warming,
television distant playing

special holidays in music,
laughter heard from faraway —

vane outside in hard wind spinning,
dinner never felt so good,

season of a new beginning,
glitter, garland, light and wood,

glitter, garland, light

and wood

much the green i broken lay…

much the green i broken lay,
far beyond displeasure –
countertops and cherry-limes,
towers full of treasure —

much the season comes around,
songs and gales of laughter –
much the green i broken lay,
cleaning up
the after

Smaller Things

It’s smaller things that mean the most.
We find that out as time goes by;
When in large nothings we’re engrossed,
That never seem to satisfy —

And then we find a moment true,
When what’s important – love – shines through,
And we can see, amid it all,
That what means most is mostly
Small