Monday, April 4, 2022

Thin Ice
I sit by a creekside and watch autumn leaves skate away,
sliding atop a Canadian stream
barren trees
as golden and yellow ships race aside rock and fallen branches
The sun is at my back-- casts a shadow over the encroaching ice
As a writer I need my solitude, a walk in a forest tires me quickly
I am as old as a memory
Time to move along, a stop along a creekside is short, the air is cold, 
I want more time alone; but a dampness breaks through my wool clothes
When I was I young, I would not take this rest at all--nor walk along this path
Then I was not a writer, I saw no beauty in solitude 
Thick as a Brick
Skating Away
Life is not the same,
I hear the change of aging music in solo winds
A walk down the path will take me to my writer's home 
There I will set a fire in a black stove,
and burn new words--not a verse from an old song
 

 


1 comment:

Brother Ollie said...

The words are out there.

Poets know.