Beyond that which the eye sees!
We used to play,
before the layers fastened their grip –
Never passing judgement, unjustly.
We used to play, ball in hand,
smell of moist grass,
the sound of crisp leaves in the wind.
You ask me what I do now –
Did you mean to say:
What excites your heart?
If you sit real quiet, where does your thoughts take you?
Do you remember play?
We used to play, ball in hand
it used to be enough.
But here we are, dilettantes, and I, a locust among wild honey.
Underneath my cellular tissue, nothing but a cosmic microbe,
a melancholy anomaly.
However, it seems that the winter of northern discontent is over, the flowers will spring and only a tingle of blue remains.
The last black mare will cross the field, where vegetation will rule and we’ll vaguely remember that we had this conversation.