There comes a time
In every man’s life
When growing from sapling
To tree from trying
To doing and from
Student to teacher only
He knows when it’s
Time to push out
To bud then shade
And eventually fall only
To start over again
Until he becomes something
Else a door floor
Or even a memory
I find such comfort
Amongst the simple things
Words which mean nothing
Until strung together like
Beads on thoughts string
And then worn gaily
Complimenting even the dourest
Of days bringing color
Sometimes hermit sometimes shaman
Oftentimes swimmer frequently bather
Always thinking never knowing
I undress each day
And dip myself in
Words languid pond or
Witness dawns day of
Images and imagination conjuring
Spirits of my past
And my present into
These things called poems
Things change they shift
Either those things abutting
Them adjust or break
They absorb or perish
Just like the sand
Is to the sea
We must understand that
Something is really nothing
Without those things surrounding
It and defining it
I don’t think that
If I write ten
Thousand or a hundred
Ten thousand of poems
Will I ever expunge
The weight of my
Broken heart and only
Upon my own death
Will I at last
Be free and finally
Find loves comfort modicum
