And enter 
the violins 
the weeping 
strings and 
now the 
cello with 
its moaning
despair and 
finally the 
plush bass
whose throaty
growling sighs 
and now
you know 
the sound 
of heartbreak 

It was Paris
near the Seine 
when one stone 
caught by shoe
kicked and fell 
creating a splash
kerplunk and ripple
it was then 
that I knew 
how sadly unimportant 
yet quietly grand
the little things 
are in life 
and that I
was just like 
that little stone 

To whittle 
is to
reduce what 
was once 
grand into
something useful 
to carve
is to 
shape what 
was once 
majestic into 
something unique 
to create 
is to
make new 
something that 
wasn’t before 
these are
the tools 
of those 
who dream 

Some days 
you feel 
other days 
you think 
most days 
you remember 
many days 
you forget 
more days 
you fear
less days 
you don’t 
so many 
days daying
one long
slow march 
to sleep 

Here me
there you
in between 
is us
so much 
of us
that there’s
little room 
left for 
anything else 
even the 
planets complain 
move over 
you are
crowding us