180 degrees
Seawall to Seawall
From Lions Gate span
Into Eastern sun
Morning fog
Laying low
Three times
A pair of runners
Find the frame
One time coming
One time going
And one time
In a fractured flash
As they pass before me
Three times
A pair of runners
Find the frame
One time coming
One time going
And one time
In a fractured flash
As they pass before me
The misty grey
Becomes a canvas
On which I create worlds
One from Earth
One from Sky
And here am I
Year over year
Setting down my characters
Setting down my letters
I imagine
Fedoras and furs
Cat eyes and horn rims
White gloves and ties
The tree, is real
The leaves have fallen from it
Rain has flooded the forest floor
But I can look back
At a time without industry
Without machines
Without, even, the wheel
My eye wants to take in the “5”
To follow curves
Explore hard edges
Take in textures
Perhaps
A little more beautiful.
I wonder
At the tenacity
Of living things
And marvel at the beauty
Death sometimes brings