inner art journal

a little red
begun in the crown
of the maple…
that reserve of love
I still have left

the sumacs ablaze
along the tracks-
the long freight passes
and over sixty now
I no longer count

in the mall
she catches my eye
and takes my hand
gently massaging
my thumb nail…

after the bookstore
I tell myself silently
I’ll drop a dollar
for the busker
but he’s gone

again this year
the leaves fall
and I watch…
the world as it is
still too much

the day off
and the paths
I could take…
looking up more
of my troubles

despite what 23 years
can do to anyone
our son visits home-
the sun glistening
on fresh fallen leaves

the image of her
remains as a sign
of a certain graciousness
doing something
between a walk and a run…

we drive through
band after band
of hurricane rain;
my wife finally
asleep…

he is about to be
deployed
but in the rain they
exchange vows
before a double rainbow