soon
soon our children will be grandparents
some of us will be forgotten
our bodies will turn into trees
history will ride the breeze
memories will whistle in the wind
wrestle through the leaves
leaves will fall to the grass
the past will grow on the floors of dense woods
our children will follow our paths
some pass through apple orchards
some tortured paths will lead back to tortured paths
soon I will come to pass
through the spyglass
kaleidoscope stained glass dances in the contrast of the invisible sun
it seems this day has barely begun
I already breathe in the afternoon
my lungs fill like balloons
a purple one
a blue one
tomorrow seems close at hand
yesterday seems years away
eternity not far away
I will soon be old with cane
cold with pain
behold the strain in my spoken choice
the dust in my old broken voice
rust in my veins
rusty chains restrain the balloons in my chest
my breath dressed in Sunday’s best
June
my heart naps, eternal rest
it was my hope that it would be taken by the weather and so it has been
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