Tag: poem

as i begin
collecting wood
it starts
to rain
i try to load
the barrels
with kindling
as fast as
i can
but it rains
and rains harder
i wonder what
winter will be
how it will be
i think of this
wet wood
the wet kindling
our fire starter
i begin
again to wonder
how winter
will be
what will it be
will it be

now gone, gone,

I saw a man in Lyon.
He was at the train station.
He looked a bit wild.
He tossed his head back
and laughed.
He stood beneath
the departure signs,
still laughing
I heard the click-click-click
as the signboard changed.
Trains rolled out
leaving the station,
just as they always do.
Departing,
now gone, gone,
gone.
With his tattered shoes
and everything,
He was gone, gone, gone.