The Brass Quartet

In the heat of the morning, outside, bright

sun, we sat ourselves down, a semi-circle, of sorts,

of hard chairs, perhaps more a “V” shape, 

to play our music, the four of us, all brass,

a quartet of parts, a tribute to ourselves,

we “Senior Citizens,” as some would call us,

still playing, a long ago learnéd skill,

perhaps less refined than younger days,

but still making music, still sharing friendships

over melodies composed, these strings of notes

arranged and harmonized, slightly out of tune,

the tunes, though, which hold us together

as the years decrescend into old age. 

Small Child

Oh, that we could all greet

as he greets me, all smiles

and radiance, and running

to me, his arms out to be picked

up and held, a tight hug, this

my little buddy, and off we go

into a world of innocence; but,

no, we learn to keep our distance,

enlarging the space between us,

defensive, yet defenseless, cautious

and perhaps afraid, even in the hug

we might take, this brief warmth

one to another; and we wonder

where it went, how to get it back,

that joy, that innocence, wondering, too,

what we could learn from a small child,

what he might learn from us.

 

Animus

The smell of a fresh mown lawn, of grass cropped

close to earth, the earthiness of it, connecting us

to nature’s intentions, to life itself and the anima within,

more than makes up for the time and sweat of mowing the lawn.

All poems are beautiful

            even the troubling ones;

Oh, that our lives

            could become poetry.

[untitled]

The loonlets, the kits, and the fawns at midsummer

are still young, but growing quickly.

Still skittish, unsure, they stay close to home,

readying themselves for the change of seasons

and the challenges ahead, as we all must,

in this midsummer of our own lives,

unsure, still skittish, and staying close to home.