other years
it would be august.
now, there is deep longing.
wet leaves conjure up
my childhood.
maybe next year
i’ll find the melody
to nostalgia.
Tag: poem
we all return again
who am i to know
still just setting out
such a thing
the body
awake
when touched
there are new buds on the lilac
i was told to trim the ones that passed
there are new buds on the lilac
we don’t use
the words
not anymore
our mouths
can’t form the shapes
if we haven’t forgotten
shall we try
the dogwood tree
has white stars
each season
we wonder
will they
be present still
white stars
on vibrant green
have you tasted
sweat?
only then
are you human?
the rain didn’t arrive
the leaves were mistaken.
growing old
i have no worries
what language
will we speak
we will
understand still
the sun
it illuminates
the telephone wires
then it sets
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