I smell the scent of morning
as I rise up from our bed.
I hear the beat of raindrops,
outside, upon the shed.
The sound of rhythmic breathing
could lull be back to sleep,
where the warmness of your body,
rises up, from beneath the sheet.
The silence then is broken
by some cars out on the street.
I move from you, so slowly,
on tired and leaden feet.
I check to see if I awoke you
but can't quite see your face,
then I step more quickly
and quicken up my pace.

Love can not be bought or sold
and is not for you to borrow
what does not belong to you
and give it back tomorrow,
for love runs away from me,
seeking others, for the morrow,
while sadness permeates my soul
drowning me in sorrow.

Come my child and fly with me
to a sunny tropic isle,
where you can see red coconuts
and a purple crocodile.
Imagination is your friend
as we lift, from off the floor,
while spreading wings, beat quicker now
and we begin to soar.
Drifting through the clouds,
like puppets on a string
and wind with it's freshest breath
makes all our clothing sing.
Look down my child,
look down below,
beneath us, on the ground,
as we see trees of coconut
and hills made out of mounds
of chocolate, marshmallows
and other sweets to eat,
provided that you keep it
from sticking to your feet.

I hear the wind in the Pines
calling my name,
as though they are beckoning me,
to come forth and to answer
for sins of the past.

Sin's of the past are those of my father
and their fathers, before them, now gone.

For each of us must bear
all the anguish of ages
and make our amends
for those who have gone,
years before.

Lights in the distance,
pillowed softness,
cottony droplets suspended,
in a milky sea,
sound of distant autos running,
muffled by the blanket of fog.

Trees and shrubs, an
occasional person, shrouded
with white, reflective vapors.
Fog lifts from ponds and marshes,
sounds echoing across the flat.

The explosion of two ducks, rising
with squawking beaks and drumming wings.
These are the memories that I remember
from those days of long ago,
when I was young.
The excitement comes
from anticipation.

A small figure with
golden hair, stands outside
the cone of light, on darkened
street. A bicycle propped up,
on kick stand, blends with
the shadows. Flash of
light, reflections of arms
waving in a warming motion.
What thoughts go through
a small boys head as he
stands alone, in the darkness.
Watching, waiting for the appearance
of another, early morning, traveler.

If you were not of this world,
I would worship you.
You are the star that guides me
through lonely day and night.
You are the light that turns
the dark into bright.
You are inspiration in my quest above.
You are my everything,
you are my love.

Clouds racing
for the far horizon,
running from
the evening light.

Wind comes puffing
in short hard bursts,
causing tree limbs
to whip in frenzy.

The Sun, peeking through
the clouded masses,
reflects the rain and
like sheeted glass
it splatters,
on the window.

Frozen droplets, of warm breath,
hang in the air
as the crisp stillness of a
winter morning wraps it's
icy fingers on ear and nose.

In the distance, sits the
mountain, decked out in
it's white finery,
serenely majestic,
with it's cape of haze.

The lake,
a piece of glass,
reflecting every object,
lies tranquil, sullen
and emits the pungent
odor of the sea.

Grey is the morning
fog all around,
dim are the street lights,
muffling all the sound.
Good time for thinking.