Petals get the glory.

Like the power ballad hammering out a love song.

Roots are heavy with symbolism swagger.

A chorus breaks hearts with its nonrhyming.

Stems are lithe and acrobatic.

Cadence is less important with no one listening.

But the story is in the leaves,

the veins, the tissues, the stomata.

The reach and the fall are the same story.

Glad it’s green

it’s been so long, almost too long

except we don’t tell time in Forever

whatever’s planted will grow

just not always the way you think

twisted, and awkward besides

so many reels with trains

the thrill of going is fresh

but there’s always an end to the track

a bud between rails

waving but not wavering

as a season presses into another

It rests, pools

with no concern for want

or when

It falls, is held

disappearing from view

but not place

It turns, spins

with myth of mother

in a cloud

It moves, is still

cradling light

maybe forever

There was a climbing wall

on the playground

and I used to sit astride it,

looking both backward and ahead,

like a sentry in a castle tower.

I imagined I could see

all the known possibilities

of what was behind me

as anything ahead seemed foreign

and a little exciting.

My legs sometimes would swing

as if there was a song playing

-often there was, at least in my head.

I would hold on tight

to the beam that held the walls together

and sit until called back to class.

There was no battle to win

or answer to figure out

on that wall, just a happy way to pass time,

legs swinging, the wind pushing me to sing

and keep time with my daydreams

of whatever lay ahead.