The cheddar-like moon
Flirting with the bashful stars
tipping them the wink

You know,
I think I'd make a good penguin

They're built for
Cold weather
Where most birds can't go
They thrive

They have to stay in their comfort zone
The cold tundra
They can't go out
Or they'll die

They watch the other birds soar
But know they can never join
They stay in their ice-filled wilderness
And keep two feet on the ground

And that is okay

I think we have a lot in common
I think I would make a good penguin

You are no longer
a child
innocent or forgiven.

Slower now,
dreams have taken flight
with butterflies
and *****
thrown beyond your reach.
No longer child-bright,
you stand in court
where age
grows upon the wall
and eats the air.

Your shadow lingers
frightened at the door
unconvinced
then bounds away
to chase a dream.

— for Victoria*

Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre.  So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.

Be careful
not to spend too much time
in the "what if," or "I wish,"
but seek to be present in "what is."