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)