Sunday, May 5, 2013

4368. ANDANTE CANTABILE

ANDANTE CANTABILE
Never know from reasons, the hedging or the
whomp. The harder you hit, the bigger they
fall. It's so slow in this Springtime air  -  still
chilly in the mornings, downright cold  - so
slow to ever warm up. All those birds and
flowers, increasing their flock, spreading
their wings and seeds. The beauty of a
growing lawn is never ruined by weeds.
-
I walk this lane counting my money. It's all I
can do from crying. Everyone else seems to have  
it all  -  men, women and children, far above
are they. I walk this dirt-surfaced path while
wondering: why can't a five be a ten at that?
-
My father was an archer, but they all had guns.
He lost his reputation very quickly and  -  alas  -
died just as well from ten bullets to the heart.
When I heard the news, I was more than stunned.

No comments: