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Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
I sit in the garden...

but not my usual focus:

(lush, red Lincoln
Roses, nor magpies
splashing one another,
frolicking in the
birdbath, like children
in a rubber pool, having
oceans of fun. No – 
today, not larger, 
more colorful – easily 
recognizable and beloved
by all, but smaller things 
join the particles of
of my lately fragmented
view of the universe)

infinitely small things
hang in my mind 
as snow crystals seeming
aimlessly confused in
in a glow of street lamp,
frantic for direction on
a windy, snowy eve;  

as those random stars 
on a beaming night of 
cloudy reflection,
flickering in and out of 
clarity – I do not find old age
a particularly fond climax
for a life honestly spent,
though admittedly, not
always of service, when it 
comes selfless obligations. 

At the moment, my senses 
travel a path of sunlight,  
illuminating what is often 
hidden between the 
blades of green foliage
or in folds of petals –

I think of how concentrated
life can be, whether small
or large when viewed from 
different vantage points along 
the paths of seasonal structure 
and annihilation – I think about
how all larger things are
made up of much smaller, often
unseen mysteries...illusive specks
gleaming, then disappearing quickly
from sight, their sprinting rays
explosively flashing – but 
just as abruptly extinguished
between dawn and a lingering
sliver of decomposing night...

in the afterglow, I witness
rainbows gloriously manifesting 
within a spray of fountain water, 
absent from view before 
awakened my mind to hidden 
pockets of animation, and the
potentially seamless folds
in the nature of projected 
journeys – some, perhaps, 
momentarily sleeping 
but never denied a rightful
aspect for fantastic dream…

each, may it be large or small 
somehow of great importance,

I search the riddle
of my often
overlooked depths...

dotting my I’s and 
crossing my T’s, 

in a Free Verse Dimension
writing new dictionaries,
phrases casting off their
shackles and bursting free
from nests of incubating 
concentration 
– profoundly in 
need of 
living 
punctuation…
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