I am a little worker bee,
Nose to the grindstone;
punching out the work
I am a little worker bee.
Fireflies blinking blinking
flying about in the warm summer night.
A jar clinking clinking
in the hands of a fascinated child.
Hands clapping clapping
to catch the bright little creature of the night.
The lid tapping tapping
as the little light bearer begs to get out.
Fireflies winking winking
in a glass jar on the shelf.
A little life sinking sinking
to nothing in that glass jar on the shelf.
April 7, 2001
I gaze beyond the glass as the cricket and frog raise their voices
in their nightly duet of spring.
A silken breeze plays upon the air with its
warm strumming fingers.
Lightning begins to quietly conduct the song
in softly brilliant flashes.
The drumming of thunder rumbles low across
the hot southern sky.
A curtain of mist rises slowly from the over damped earth
to meet the hidden moon.
The stage is set as the rain begins to dance softly
upon its rich fertile stage.
An audience of trees rustle and sway to
this soft meadow song.
While I sit at my darkened window gazing entranced
by the performance of spring.
April 7, 2001
It is strictly an image,
what people see.
I can always chose to project
a part of myself or the whole.
No one ,but you, has viewed
my true self.
I only let others see
But you have seen it all.
You were part of my beginning and
you will be a part of my end.
I drove over the river this evening and it looked like chocolate milk.