Sunday, July 30, 2017
“Lori,” I said, “Don’t move!
I’m still worshiping your face.”
She passed almost 20 years ago,
No one since could take her place.
The “Snow Fire” was my favorite rose,
Until it succumbed to a disease…
First the blossoms withered,
Then eventually the leaves.
Then there were the special dogs,
My companions and best friends…
Who one by one grew old and died,
The cycle never ends.
Everyday I’ve gathered thoughts,
Those memories like favorite books.
A person can’t own anything,
Including their good looks.
Friday, July 28, 2017
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
Years ago, I watched a film,
Titled “Mr. Sycamore”;
Stranger than any movie
I had ever seen before.
Unhappy with his life he dug,
A hole in his front lawn.
He jumped in, pulling down the dirt,
By morning he was gone.
He was resurrected with new life,
Where he had lived before,
Sprouting from the hole he dug,
As a beautiful Sycamore.
Decades later, I see the genius,
Coming back as a towering tree…
He managed to pull off dying,
At home, without having to leave.