Shoes come off, then the socks,
stepping lightly o’er the rocks.
Wind picks up, kids run wild,
flying through the grass awhile.
Sitting down, looking up,
slowing now to fill the cup.
One line here, one verse there,
meaning, meaning everywhere.
Stop and write some poems.
after Annie Finch
At times I can lament my youth
when body smooth and taut did prove
itself blind to age and the passage of Time
when words o’er ran the banks of meter and rhyme
and verse came flawlessly free and streaming.
Now the babies, crying then squealing
with delight and true frustration;
we are swamped with operation:
Family Life. So now it comes
to this sweet blog, moments of love’s
action and age unfolding in these
intangible pages. What does it mean
to find ourselves still writing, still loving,
still talking, working, seeking, moving
through the years? Me and you:
we grasp Time’s song and sing it through.