The trick isn’t 

finding 

the right words,

.

it’s letting go 

all the ones 

that don’t matter

.

when everything 

seems equally 

dense. 

Midday shadows are stoic.

I am full but still nibbling. 

.

Opening the book of poems, 

excited yet a little afraid 

as every day shows me answers 

to questions I didn’t know I had. 

.

I’d simplify if I wasn’t so scared.

Always teetering on the edge of reason. 

.

There is a phrase… and then another,

speaking to my misery and my hope

both alight and reaching beyond 

rhyme or midday shadows. 

His battered trunk had a cracked hinge,

scuffed and faded from sitting in the sand 

music and fabric tumbled out

–

He shuffled a lot, looking down 

following his feet through memories

–

“The reason, for no particular reason 

to share theosophical flashbacks…” 

has to do with a bookstore gig in the ‘60s

–

“There be leprechauns here,” he said,

gruffly and apropos of nothing 

–

And yet,

the singing voice poured out like molasses,

sweet and a little slow

–

extolling virtues of enchanted snuggling 

and a lion’s roar that might be the ocean. 

The butterfly bush is just about spent,

just a few stragglers unwilling to let go.

A few leaves have blown across the street. 

.

The parking lot is a shabby church,

with drivers barely noticing arrows

or the quiet of nearby houses in afternoon. 

.

Is it a prayer when you can’t put words 

together without breaking down

or is it simply a lament for lost dreams?