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Personal Note:

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Poem

Oh, the sunlight heals my soul, right
here in the middle of May.
Fairness and sanity require that
you report a perfect day.

Sunday afternoon, mountain high clouds in the blue,
and a single engine plane somewhere up there
to remind you of earlier days that you once knew.
A question arises to vex you as you sit here.

In the midst of high grass and wild flowers,
above the shrieks of children in the playground down the way, 
the question, "Do we ever change?", hovers,
and troubles me throughout this perfect day.

I pass grape vines with new leaves hanging down,
white butterflies and blue agapanthus plant.
Cyclists streak by as if the trail was their own.
Still the thought does not relent.

My earliest memories of well being
are repeated in this very moment. 
The cool breeze, the shattered sunlight shining
through the leaves, the children's chant,

even the single engine in the sky
complete a cycle that I am aware
I have been a part of, but I don't know why.
Is this just samsura of which we must beware?

In loving this moment and wanting to cling to it
do I add to an attractive old trap and
did I create it this morn when deciding the day fit
perfectly and drank deeply of air and land.

Do I recognize the return of a moment
already experienced? Is each second
a fractal pattern designed to entrap and torment
or simply a brand new day just found?

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