Action

Continually we are poised
between the solace of words
and the uncertainty of action
sitting with our teacups
while marveling at the fluttering white butterflies.

Birdsong

In the lapse of downtown traffic
I hear a birdsong
cadence by cadence carrying a past
of cyclos whirling in dust and heat
merging then returning to the scratch of my pen.

Sir Senescence

In the savannah of mice
stretching across your flickering eyelids
a tail is a scepter
and your reign is complete.

In the seventeenth year of life
"Sir Senescence" becomes an endearment
bestowed upon a familiar form
and that gaze of emerald constancy
forever burnishing my heart.