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.