Cold silence makes the day run long,
The night as well.  She misses most
His chin, clean-shaven as a palm,
Her slanting fingers touch a ghost.
He never talked about the war,
Liked culture of the harvest land,
Sometimes an evening at the bar,
Cold mornings waiting in a stand
While  counting antlers,  powder dry,
Field dressing, hauling, freezing meat,
Indulging dogs with half the tripe,
Then sleeping in his favorite seat,
The old recliner, much repaired,
Now empty as the winter air.

I implore you not to judge
me by my failings of youth,
but by my humble good
deeds and achievements
acquired through the
wisdoms of maturity
gained.

Maturation is a process.
We are born into ignorance
and can but strive eventually
to overcome it.

Lightness of her tender touch
Whose saffron hues, intone, so much,
Intoned as if by Master’s brush
To apple, peach and rose-like blush
Applied to heighten spangled lust
In each as coalescence ….flushed.

M.