Writing a poem 
is to me 
like sending a 
child to school 
his first day 
knowing that when 
he does return 
at the end 
of his day 
who he is 
will be changed
because of those 
who he met

And there under 
a mossy log
I found it
dropped and forgotten 
maybe left behind 
in some haste 
or hurried home 
never quite sure 
where or when 
yet one day 
as I walked 
a familiar path 
I saw its 
whispering glint its 
gentle glowing eyes 
of the bear
that so long 
ago had remained 
in the wood 

I orchid
sit snuggled
in a
square window 
high atop
the bathroom 
we blossomed 
recently five 
yellow red
smiles here
in our 
happy place 
called home 

I have slowed
both my steps
and my aspirations 
I have found 
that there’s nowhere 
left to go 
the races that 
I have run 
now behind me 
a park bench
and tired feet 
know me now 

There is
no i
only us
there is
no you 
or me
there is 
only we
to be