Walnut Spring

The wind is neither bold, nor demure

as it moves across the first days of May,

after storms have ripped savagely and

the first Spring tulip-blooms fade away.

It is Spring, he whispers, pulling on me

to follow him scrambling up the steep path,

where under the budding walnut tree

the great swells of ground cover its roots.

Noses cold, we huddle close together,

our breath mingling with the pollen dust

that alights the winds of forever

with its promise of transcendent hours.

Were we here until tomorrow’s day break,

or for as long as the first leaf’s show takes.

The Living

Missed grandma’s funeral,

busy with this and that and

sure no one could stand in.

But I took care to spend

time looking into her blue

and cloudless view of life.

We’d sit for hours on circle,

her dementia forgetting what

was already said minutes before.

And I’m glad to have bought a ticket

for the carousel of her living

than to visit her in repose that wasn’t.

Better to see ‘em alive than dead,

a lifeless mannequin lies

with a disconnected soul, deaf

to the heart’s beating transistor.