as do words.
The stately oak stands
in the middle of
the dense forest;
inside, rings write themselves.
Age marks, the years gone by,
written between invisible lines,
limbs broken by gusty winds
—new formations etched by a pen.
Leaves dress themselves
adorning the dark edges of bark.
Paragraphs already written,
find new expressions.
Expanding this story, this once tiny shoot,
pushed its way through deep soils.
Even if NO one sees this autobiography,
there is a witness.
A day, an evening, a blanket of stars,
lives this moment
like a rhythmic poem not needing an ending.
The paper never seems to crumble…
even if covered over by snowflakes.
Icicles refashion what authors spend
lifetimes attempting to impart.
The mighty river, feeding the roots,
rushes by when the rains fall,
yet its stillness heard when a soft summer
breeze echoes through its
open canopies. Caves carved out by creatures
living in this novel.
Everything is a noun.
Adjectives are the seasons
describing what has been seen
and yes, when seen again
it is as a first time.
An eraser does not rid the winter’s past
just as time cannot remove
the scenes of yester years.
Spring comes with a sweet
composition heralding the
observer, “Begin Again.”
The oak spreads its branches
—words like soft buds
open unfolding a blank page.
And, this writer
giving thanks for yesterday’s blessings
and, seeking the wonders of tomorrow,
new, fresh, alive
and in love
with a world
which gives each of us the ability
to create not only what we
want to see
BUT what we also believe