Time

O, fearsome cherub,
your whirling wheels
fly forward, crawling,
with eyes forever looking back!
Every great work
is petition to thee
for immortality,
but the undulation of your wings
laid low in streaming desert
Ozymandias’ pride;
’twas but a trifle.
And even should a
Homer, Virgil, or Grecian Urn
canvas all you’ve seen
of life,
death,
and that which lies between,
still would you decree,
“All is vanity.”
So wisdom bids one pause
to smell the roses
while they may.

Barn

I couldn’t remember a time when you were not there.
For every childhood joy, you were there.
If I scraped a knee, or shed a tear, you were there.
Time moved forward, yet you stood still
and watched, while I grew.

Your familiar loft had welcomed me when once I snuck in
to steal my first kiss —
a secret you never betrayed.
I’ll always remember how wondrously foreign everything felt in that moment!

Nestled on the crest of an impossibly verdant hill,
it seemed as if the land itself had birthed you,
so perfectly were you situated.
Your unassuming white doors were a backdrop
for every spring’s breathtaking palette of colors;
and your ruddy red walls were like a warm beacon
which could be seen from miles distant defying winter’s gloom.

The passing years took me away;
yet nostalgia urged a return —
and so pleasant memories of simpler days
frolicked in my mind as I ambled once more
through your forested enclosure.
I never dreamed that when I emerged
you would not be there.

But too long had I been gone, for you did not greet me.
What I saw in your place, most called progress —
though I will always know better —
and so I resolved to build you anew with my pen.