Beyond Imagination

What we leave behind
returns to greet us… unplanned,
unsought, unexpectedly.

Ever ancient, ever new,
the universe is a finely tuned
microcosm of miracles

and the human race, all string
and tin cans, is a discordant blip
on its echocardiogram.

Walk softly and carry no stick.
Life is not a fiction.  It is not
a spectator sport either.

Life is an amalgamation of dreams
and deeds that will return to us

to comfort or accuse.
We become the sum of our imagination
guided by the will of a greater God,

of miracles and dreams
and a microcosm yet to be seen.



What remedy is known to man
when season’s change so unexpectedly?
What balm has been invented to heal
such woes?

I only know it’s so
that winter follows fall, and when the cold
seems just too much to bear, fair April
smiles upon us.

We soak up rays of August  sun as if
summer were the only season
with an expertise for healing
time’s onslaught.

Ah, but September is waiting in the wings,
a bit more mature but young enough
to celebrate with bonfires
and guitars.

The air’s acrackle with sparks
of falling leaves and fireflies. Apples
turn their taste to cider. The harvest in, we bask
in the realization

of the bounty of our blessings.
Contentment claims the senses. What is summer
without the knowledge of winter,
and the hope of Spring?

Therein is the truest anodyne. Time is bound
to do its thing.  Our role in this great quest
for wings is to jump right in and join
the celebration.

More than Rabbit in the Hat

August is serenely sunny,
It’s more than illusion,
Everything is blooming,
The light
fills all my empty spaces.

I didn’t know it was possible
to soar with feet on the ground.
Eye to eye with the tops of pines,
there is so much to tell you
about what it is like up here.

Everything exists on the edge of
a breath.  Both delicate and durable,
our time is a tapestry
and this
is a beautiful scene.

That’s My Story…

and I’m sticking to it.

Slacking again, I guess?
Five days away and not a word,
flaky bird to take flight
into the vast unknown.

I own it, mea culpa
all the way. But I can explain.
Truth is stranger than fiction
and I can prove it.

Let’s see…who takes a job
at seventy-three? Woe is me.
What car with forty thousand miles
turns from friend to foe?

I didn’t need that “I” light,
bright as it was and such a lovely shade,
to know there was a plight developing.
I felt the power steering

fade into oblivion. If the wheels
were moving, I could guide it
using both arms and a grunt, but
don’t stop.

I did.  Don’t back up. I tried.
No go. I snuffled a bit and then
remembered I’m never alone.
I drove

that dang thing home. almost
a hundred miles. I ached but
did not brake but for necessity,
and that most carefully.

I made it home without a hitch.
One thought in my head,  I’m trading it.
I did. Told them what I wanted,
so have it ready please.

Everything arranged before I got there.
Trouble is,  en route to new car heaven,
I had to tell my baby I was trading her.
She balked. I backed up

into a stump with a sign on it*…couldn’t help it,
couldn’t steer. Damage?  Oh yeah, the metal sign post
pierced her precious hip. The stump attempted
to decapitate her bumper.

A hand was on my shoulder. I got my new Verona**.
It steers with just a touch.  Such luxury is almost
too good to be true.  Sorry for the slacking.  Tomorrow
I’ll catch up with all of you.


*btw, the sign said:  Please Drive Carefully,
True story start to finish.

**Name changed to protect the innocent
(plus I’m holding out for ad fees)

And just to add an extra twist…Here
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