Mother Lode

I squat like a miner;

sift through rubble,

barefoot in Levis.

Memories swirl the pan ―

most of them look the same;

unfossilized, too liquid to keep.

Ruby lips. The American dream. 

Now and then a sparkle ― a nugget

looks up at me with human eyes.  

Clementine!  Can't take everything, darling.

Just a few. I pack it neatly in the box

labeled "Initial Boom".

Souvenirs line up like herring.

Gradually decompose,

bloom sweet and pungent;

fertilize a second chance ―
my destiny.

tk/July 2015


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Hopscotch

There is much to be said for the making of lines.

I number the spaces, a canopy on top;

chalk is brave.

The stone I saved for too many years

slides from my pocket; warm

on my thigh.

Before I toss it I expect socks to fall,

another skinned knee, someone to call me in

for supper.

I take chances; hopscotch one foot, then the other,

knowing there's no turning back, until I land on both feet,

unscathed. 

tk/January 2014


R.A.D. Stainforth makes my simple words beautiful... 

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