Walk along this path,
my love,
but walk so carefully,
lest you crush those
fragile ones,
who cling so readily,
to life, with its
misgivings
and human frailty.
Reach not to lift
them up,
nor whisper silently,
about the wonder of one
nights love,
or what will never be.

Warm winds are blowing
over the hill,
as the hot breath of Summer
approaches.
The earth breaks and crumbles,
as seeds spring to life,
trying to smother the ground.
Spring lives eternal
as Winters dead grasses,
rich and decaying,
return to the soil
to enrich and nurture
new life.

It matters not
what's left of life,
from now,
to journeys end.
For one, must live
the fullest life and do
the best they can.

January, remembers
the coming of a new Spring.
Changes of weather,
occur, each and every day
as the crisp, cold of Winter,
is warmed by the Sun.
Rain drizzling down,
like pieces of shattered glass,
pouring from ponderous clouds
that are heavenly amassed.

The coldness of the chilling wind
beats against my brow
as I make my way up, 148th Avenue.
Twenty-four blocks, is half way done
and here I am thinking of you.
Running relieves those tensions
and gives me exhilaration.
I love running but find more
reasons than I would like to recall,
to sometimes avoid this exercise.

Someday, soon, when youthful follies
have grown stale and passed.
You will find that, guidance given
was acquired and amassed,
by someone who had gained, by living
a great experience.
This experience of living was learned
through much grief and strife
and in no way, was it intended to
make you change your life.
The intent is to make it easier
for you to find your place
and let you, run with others
while keeping up the pace.

Docile being
goes unseeing,
bending in the wind.
Swaying, gently,
unrelenting,
standing free,
again.

Love, be not a stranger to me
when I call your name.
The sound of voices, echo's from
the distant past, can be heard,
in the emptiness that surrounds me.
Why do you shirk me so?
I ask myself this question but
silence is my only answer.

Golden are the days,
I have known you,
silver are the nights,
as I will always love you,
no matter what our plight.

A golden tide of maple leafs
cascade from the trees,
swept by a November wind.
Branches, stripped bare,
twist and wave, pummeled by a breeze.
Falls eternal desecration, of Summer beauty,
readies the land for Winters coming.