The ancients worshiped water
as both savior and destroyer:
for today’s life-giver
could be tomorrow’s death,
crawling up the river banks.
Which I can relate to now
as the azure devil
swallows up my city,
inch by precious inch.
The dark clouds of the morning
break for a sunny afternoon
that hides behind the raindrops
which herald the evening gloom.
There’s a fickle fancy
that’s blowing on the breeze
who warms our tired, weary bones
only to let them freeze.
Sometimes it seems that
struggling harder gets me
further from my goals.
When the spring arrives
All the trees bear green tombstones
For fallen flowers.
I’m wearied by your fervor
and think it as shallow as your fads:
an ironic indulgence
which you may one day deny
with precisely the same passion
with which you affirmed it.
Weekend getaway
filled with long drives, wrong turns, and
pleasant memories.
Though the sun bleeds out
we must always remember
it will rise again.
