Friday, January 31, 2014

Outreaches

A hand reaches out
like some hero
on the recovering route
it does nothing but reach,
too short.

I wish I could hold the torch,
but I won’t rush;
Truth to Teach.

I am not part of some chorus
on a long forgotten shore.

I am familiar with that touch,
an under-breath muttering court
I will never be of that sort.





Our desert (haiku)

I look through photos Our life through the four seasons Back through the old ones.  Blossoming in spring With all the diverse flowers ...