Your Touch has grown Cold

Dearest, here we are back…doing what we used to do.

The promise of calendar days just a prosthetic gesture.

A sub-conscience decision to blur the vision.

Darling, I know something about love.

It isn’t dressed in hazard red.

It isn’t laced in road closed puns.

Yes, dear, I too, know something about love.

There is a dusting on the road…

a Sunday drive to nowhere I am told.

Dearest, you are the predator to this unseasonably cold censorship.

But then again, you’ve always gave me the inclement slip.

your touch 1

Ragged Mountain Byway

This old house once knew my children
This old house once knew my wife
This old house was home and comfort
As we fought the storms of life

Aching Limbs

Clover still grows during this…the first hard frost.

I have always envied this walk…to clear the air.

Drudgery and all its beauty strewn about in wild fanfare.

The perpetual futility of earth’s aching limbs.

A healthy canvas for the unknowing eye, is all one will see.

Progress and perfection…languishing in antiquity.