Cobblestones

Cobblestones



Every thought, every word,
each and every morning
cast, like stones along
a riverbed, awaiting
winter’s icy chill

Each one a reminder
with edges worn smooth,
traces of more solid things
once crumbled, and then scattered
in humbled anonymity

And the water rushes by
until the day freezes
so sharply that everything
lies hidden beneath an
opaque sheet of creaking ice

Waiting for other days
and other mornings,
other thoughts and other words
to come tumbling by,
still glowing in significance.

July 13

Mom is 86 today...

Misplaced Letters



Down in the middle of
whatever might have happened,
where even ambiguities
get all muddled up,
someone placed some words
into an envelope –
shook it once or twice
and shoved it in the mail

It was an especially foggy morning,
even the mist didn’t know
where to go,
one in which the patterned steps
of a carrier’s feet
disappeared into the confusion
and, with that, all was lost

There’s a sea of scattered
leafs out there:
rocks, limbs and human garbage,
things both tossed and lost –
and, out among it all, there must lie
a misplaced bundle of decaying letters,
scrambled thoughts
that never found their way.