when the summer path
has turned to rust –
and wingeds line the trees
– content to stir
as echoes
to the breeze

were times between
the golden glow –
the silver face of green
a lowly line
succumb to time –
is crossing us again

winter wheat
and dirty feet
were given to believe –
the autumn moon
was never meant
to tell –

april blossoms worried
as june bugs found july
waters rose
beyond the bank
to wash away
the night

moments
to the mayfly –
as secrets shared
with mars
venus wears her dresses
just the same –

age recalls
the coming back
miles of lonely tears –
whiskey warm in jelly jars
– wishes
by the well

spin me of another
some sweet day
to come –
the sound of naked feet
on polished stone

the shrill of laughter
climbing –
timbers much too tall
than e’er we knew
would find us here

– and will us back
to home

. . .