“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society" - Jiddu Krishnamurti

Upon the table:
a green crunch.

Lulled by a sense of security I sit alone.  The dusty window obscures my view. 

Pictures hang within my mind.  Memories of faded days.  A peek into my rearview mirror.

Gemstones glitter in the barroom brawl, your chocolate-drop eyes entice.

As the emerald glass spins, as the madness of the hatter blooms, this moment captures hearts.

Youth returns. The day is young. The dance floor turns.  Jitters bug.

Glimmering alone... The moonlight offers a tinted gift for two.

Simmering on a Sunday,
anecdotal evidence on tap.

Greens merge with orange
hues, victories are served.

Detonated mystery - hiding
inside, these walls may fall.

One more deal upon this table,
wishing for a white flag.

The thread in the hand of a kind mother
Is the coat on the wanderer's back.
Before he left she stitched it close
In secret fear that he would be slow to return.
Who will say that the inch of grass in his heart
Is gratitude enough for all the sunshine of spring?