Maple buds are now brick red
scattered through a copse of trees
with warmth mixing into a cold breeze
spring time must be just ahead
winter's song is nearly done

A robin and one lone blue jay
hopping about bare limbs and ground
both hoping food will soon be found
on this bright and windy day
beneath a yellow mid-day sun

Beech trees now their dead leaves expel
crimson blooms upon a red bud tree
that's bent and muted just like me
dogwood buds starting to swell
the return to life has now begun

Ghosts of who we were
Strength made from our yesterdays
Where our memories are blurred

Left to our own devices
We fabricate gracefully
Making truth work harder still

Living longest I can kneel
At the altar then
And no one can deny me

When we check the time,
noticing that check also means stop,
with a clock or watch with hands that go round,
now like seconds,
in the now like minutes
or resonating in the now like hours,
like the Earth around itself,
around the sun,
in the near infinite now of the spiraling Galaxy
We are in and out of time and myth.
Free.

When we read a digital display
of this thing we call time,
the number gets bigger each time you look.
Digital time drags us inexorably to our deaths.
The bugger.

I loved you,
deeply,
madly,
truly...

until I found out
you were human.