The promise of things

 

Pent-up anticipation in the still air,

swollen gray sky, hold my breath,

and they come, first one, then many,

dancing their way down, down,

 soft feathers from a torn puffed blanket.

 In the backyard, oak trees, dark silent giants,

 soon to be wrapped in a white cloud.

I marvel at the promise of things to come,

moment before the rising sun fills up the sky,

silky tones of pink and orange, sooth my heart.

Faint marking of a trail leading to a cliff,

 falling into the ocean abyss,

Forlorn fog- horn before the lighthouse is seen,

 riding up on a cliff.

Spring buds, their soft hues, unimposing,

slushy, earth with merely a promise of flowers,

 in the tiny green sprouts,

soon will explode into lush green, spectacular extravaganza,

The promise of things, the sweet pain of anticipation,

first smile, first word, first love,

my daughters, young women, now wives.

The puzzled look on the face of my grandchild celebrating,

old as time victory of her first step,

unstoppable, ready to take on the world.

And slowing time, the days roll one by one,

               to reveal all this beauty before it is gone.

The promise of things to come,

 the exhilarating, unbearable anticipation,

 so painful, so sweet.

Any way

He said, any road will get you there,

if you only walk long enough,

and his grin that hanged in the air,

weightless, lit his eyes.

It doesn't matter which way you go,

if you don’t care much.

his smile fastened back to his face,

went with the rest of his body,

when he was gone.

The lure of the open road,

unrolled to where the earth meet the sky.

Unknown encounters waiting to happen,

adventures that flow in my veins.

My eyes teary with delight, almost forgotten,

of a cold winter night, and a bedtime story.

 But at the fork in the road I halt,

like Alice, I hesitate, I ponder,

I search for his smile, now gone.

When he said pick any road, was it

right, maybe left?

Do I much care where I go?

This much I know,

the journey is getting harder and harder to cling on to,

and when the sun descends, and the day is gone,

the lights in the nearby house, the warmth of the fire,

 in the wood-stove,

is what I long for.

Some stories

Some stories begin with sparks and fireworks,

Others with the dull light at dawn

Shadows fleeting between the trees,

Birds chirping quietly in the twigs,

As the world yawning, extending its arms.

Softly as butterflies hardly making a mark,

We can glide like liquid, shaping our bodies to match.

While we watch, others sculpting their form,

Forceful and coarse like sandpaper on glass,

Leaving their inscriptions for others to surpass.

Some journeys come to an end before they even began;

 Others last for eternity and never collapse,

Who’s to say which kind exceeds the other,

A journey to the end of the land, 

Or just a mile up the road.