Should I write again of love?
Surely, by now, the moon
has had her full; and those
luxury cruses best put off,
taxes long overdue; besides,
those who love well
love well in a canoe--
which is precisely my point--
love is never through:
For the wind loves the bird---
that’s why he flies; as much
for the wind as his own
bird’s eyes; and why such
manic caw? Much like
our spastic cries—in the
climax of it all, he knows
even if he falls,
love never grows old…
and love
never dies….
God Sing's His hyms
We wake to a horizon birds singing there
hyms, While traffic cruses by, Can't help to
wonder if they take time to smell the roses.
Ringing of chimes as God sings his hyms cover
of gold emerald and rubys upon our domain, Means
winter is near while God sings his hyms a la you.
Soon all will remain is silver
glisting in the wind, which
is when the blues
stain our window pain.
Shunder to think what storms blow in
if we no longer had God to sing his hyms
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