kites fly
and there is little
volunteerism
in this small soup kitchen
on lois lane
and apathy

sorted and sordid
my steam has
been misdirected,
passion melted
out of shape like
Dali’s Timex

I reach for
the ripcord one
yes, one more time
flushing out the
safety net I know
like my own smile

the other cheek
sings a familiar Byrds song
ever the season
a tired, sly wink is
issued… too tired for tears
hope is rote

© Tom Watters  1/10/07

my calendar has no recollection
when this pit lodged itself within
unassuming, dry and filled
with the sap of hope

drought-stricken save for random
vulgar sprinkles, the receptive terra had been
lost or incognito..its surface cracked
and curling toward the heat

months don’t remember
such things as when
there was a slight shift
in the weather..it was not forecast

a germination of sorts
a gentle and furtive hatching.
not a sound was made
just a slight push at the heart

seasons don’t know that
they could be called Winter
if the yearning is to be Spring
then that desire speeds unchecked

the robust leaves spread
playing games in my stomach
scents become richer, more vivid
the sprouts tangle linguistics

my timepiece did not send
an alarm or reminder
intervals seem trivial or futile
the hours direct north, left, down, forward

these roots took firm hold
feeding on soil that learned fertility
they caress the veins with music
and push the blooms through thick skin

the elements were not waiting
there was a peculiar ray of sun
my lips parted sanguine
and the blossom sang its wellspring

© Tom Watters  1/4/07