Listen to poem:
Be But One of Twelve
Fortuitous, my errant self arose
upon yon glen, my mellow eyes favor
tawny giants teeming with varied life,
nesting, crawling, climbing, perched or flying
gracefully aloft, same endless dreamers.
Shrubs near wandering stream flourish, touching
grassy meadows and flowery hued fields,
where lurks mass of bugs, neath earth, or above,
albeit, they must stay hidden because
they are near the bottom of the food chain.
Chance arrived as held memories motions
around, naught tinkering but flashing by
with the familiar faces that worn some,
same as structures around this grand quaint town
but aged me, always a young boy will be.
A young September and I started work
half a century ago, deadlines
for glens, piled papers are tawny, scrambled
shoe naught crawl, perching on breaks and often
daydreamers are caught, monitored always.
This be the way it was a lifetime pass,
retired September whence I had begun,
lost I, many September, since, begs the
question, so much ground to be recovered,
is there justified sand in my hourglass?
2019 October 31
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