Chill theatre
I linger
how his hands
touched Chopin’s
fragility
so completely.
Tonight watching Moon
I realized
I’m almost your age now
the edge where you stepped off
your light flickered
and you died
How elder I thought you were then
so much wiser grey-haired
and beautiful than I
how generously mischievous
whimsical and ultra cool
a shimmering infinitive
touchable stone
alive.
It’s my birthday
I’m not a heart-shape
I was only born on Valentine’s
there are still things
I heart can recommend
like when your bag’s full
you’re on a lonesome road
on a hillside looking out
over places you’ve already been
or winding pathways up ahead
it feels both great and good
to stop along the way
share the beauty and a bit of bread
with a hungry stranger friend.
What meaning flows from
a few lines written
anywhere
in a book
on a single sheet of paper
on the back of a photograph
left under a brick loosed
from some country stairway
near some lazy stones
along an ancient walkway
on a sunshine cloudless day
where many footsteps pass
with the sound of birds
and a distant tone of bells
warning of sheep grazing
in some green grass field nearby
if no eyes come upon them there
if no hands touch to draw them close
before the rain?