I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence
And so the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're goin' through

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Bouquet of Years

Poetry in motion/action. So here we are.

All I have to give
is a bouquet of years.
Each tightly wrapped and
sprinkled with baby's breath.
They'll unfurl
and perfume our room together
until the petals drop
becoming the potpourri of our lives.
The memory of the blossoms
portage us over the rapids
Until age widens
and the years flow easily
into the nostalgic swamp.

And that's where this train went off the rails. I think it started at "potpourri." We'll try again tomorrow.

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