He is wading through pages
of dots in the form of faces and words,
imagining them as recipes
for things he always wanted to try.
.
Asking the heavens for a dash of that,
a pinch of this, and a pen
that never runs out of ink.
.
His spirit dallies in the old neighborhood
lolling about the rooftops
watching flowers bloom and buses pass by.
.
Wondering if being a watcher is ok
when there aren’t any questions left,
he eases himself onto a cloud
and sketches a history in three lines:
.
A few more points
harmonize
what was and is.
.
.
(a remembrance for a poet friend who passed away a month ago)
The Word Rummager 
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