Thoughts never really leave me; I”m blessed
With what I take to be a holiday,
A page, a line from some distant future play
A little worse for wear for lack of happening; as poorly pressed
As common grapes in my own youth. Both bread and wine
Denied, my eyes at least behold the beauty of the thing
That I was never told, how truly passing was the spring
While I was teasing buds and threading fishing lines,
However much I thought I knew; how old I felt.
And as my trails began to cross, I suppressed
So little of what it was I took to be my soul. I dressed
The part, withdrew a thousand miles from where I dwelt
Imagining the magic of a myriad wrinkles’ wisdoms mine while still a boy
And thinking nothing of my summer’s lust, reduced my salad years to toys.
…art at top by H B Kerr…