Gazing past the winter
you can smell more than roses,
more than fresh-turned soil.
Search for glimpses
in Nature’s hideaways
of last year’s lost moments.
Leaves, unswept on your path,
a source of unfortunate worms
for Spring-hungry birds.
Sometimes we grow so much
that simple pleasures
escape our sophisticated minds.
This grave is for a wealthy man,
just look at the beautiful marble
hiding his destitution.
We each rise from our own Spring
hoping forth brightly
where joy waits in a far field.
Filling a book of futures with planned desires
Hopes are mounted like empty photographs
Whose pictures we supply,
Each image, when it’s due, removed
And pasted in the book of me on the page of now
Painted with reality,
Time passes and each life moves on with its own pulse
Marking moments as the turn of chapters,
Marking moments as the flicking of pages
That fill the heart with recollections
Of joys and pains and the mind’s reflections.
And hope’s pictures unachieved gently rest as feathers in the book of fallen dreams.