Thoughts One through Seven.


The cricket has left

I know she will survive, but

Now I want her back.



The world turns on its

Own, now when does it pass on

that power to me.



All movement freezes

Halted by the winds as they

Chill man to a stop.



I fear the closeness and the contact,

As a rabbit runs from the claws of a stone tigress.

I fear the colors and the noises,

As a monkey scatters from launch of a distant firework.

I fear the warmth and comfort,

As a cricket leaps from the tip of a candle’s flame.



The river runs by,

Sprinting into its future.

Rooted at its bank,

I wilt wearily afraid

Afraid to follow its lead.



I feel there is a

Golden mean where all is clear;

I have yet to find

What or where that would be and

By what rules it would follow.



I hope the trees stand tall by my side,

They will let their newborn blossoms kiss my shoulders,

Greeting me as I join the world.


I hope the foreign rivers rush to greet my feet,

They will tell me stories of their youth,

Speaking in their native tongue.


I hope the chestnuts fall to my hands,

They will prick the hands of my family as we open their burs,

To enjoy their succulent produce.


I hope the mountains never escape my sight,

That the cold laugh of their snow will bring me comfort,

As I pass through, for the last time.


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