warm sun trickling through palm trees
emerald waters lap the empty white shoreline
salty breeze still smelling like rain
music, faint, from the old gramaphone
sweat slowly rolling down the frosty glass
the hammock rocks gently
and you,
sleeping on my chest
soft brown hair fluttering in my face.

He looks in the mirror
Shaving cream covering the unkempt beard
dull razor in hand
saw a face
that others thought held (used to hold) promise

The streets look different
From what i remember
The memories were coiled up around you
All of them
The clock tower, the tulips, the boulangerie
Even the stray dogs in the park square
I stroll under the hotel window
Where we lay curled up many hours
Listening to Callas, and think
I no longer know where you are.

"Dining alone tonight?"
"Yes"
"Pity!"
"Not Really"

They lie on opposite sides
exhausted, rumpled sheets
sweaty brown skin under her fingernails
he, dreaming of better times
and she
of someone else.

resolute, willed
to what nature throws its way
no wind will sway it
and sun cant dry
the snow will not lose its coat
stand tall and silent
pines are boring, like
a wise old man.

waiting,to grow and open up
to the possibility of life
again

Initially it said love and after about 10 minutes of staring out the window, i changed it to life.
I am glad to be writing again, even though I dont like what I am writing. Its been a few years.

about how winter
soft snow falling
through still green pines
coat the scars of an aging earth
impartially.

At either end of the social spectrum, there is a leisure class.

I have willingly joined the one at the lower end.

Nowadays i travel endlessly to find the ability to remain in one place.