Watched the Lord come to the garden.
Heard the Voice call softly, “Adam.”
In anticipation, licked his lips,
Felt shivers in his snake-ish hips.

Still no movement from the bushes;
Human forms still held their breath;
Chortling serpent, breathless, waited
In the garden where came death.

I was on a train from
Paris to Amsterdam
and with an empty page
a sad smile and a pen
she was looking out
the window across
the apple green fields and
into the valleys of cobbled
villages and ****** churches
and as the dead air of Paris
was leaving my mind
I began to read the reflection
of questions in her eyes
I wanted to tell her what
she already knew
that the answers are in
the rhythm of the rails
and to only underline
the words that matter ...
Clay.M

Alone, I sit looking to the west.
Sunday is quickly going down
My lover, two states away, sees light,
But our Sunday sun is sinking now.

I remember the sadness of Sundays gone,
Those weekend breaks could not last long
Dreaded the call to bed and sleep,
Wished a few more hours my own to keep.

Today's sky was harsh and clear, and now the sun
Hangs low and lower on the line
Above the trees and houses, nearly gone;
My loneliness is for her, and so I pine.

A dog might put its head between its paws
Look forlorn, old, thoroughly dejected,
But I must do my chores and never pause
Long enough to feel I am neglected.

Older men and older women find life
Must leave them before long,
So when the days turn weeks, the strife
Of loneliness and worry comes along.

Old Frost said well that nothing gold can stay,
That morning gold must quickly fade away,
And so it is I linger on the sun's chill light
Before I totter off to hide from coming night.

In a house awaiting death,
No Monday coming,
No thing to do but wait,
No sudden joys anticipate,
No early chores to distract,
Just a careful sitting back,
In breathless Sunday slack.

Though they will not stay long,
Nor, either shall I linger on.
Our bucking days are gone;

Somehow they've reconciled
To be companions and my friends
After years of push and pull between us.

Old Horses are the best,
Quiet now, and patient,
Willing now to stand or ride,
Their patience fills me with content.

I find myself thinking
Everything feels like Sunday
With no choir,
No homily,
No audible absolution.

No Monday in sight, nor Tuesday,
Though the sanitation truck appears
To let us know that time goes on,
That effluent must run to sea,
That wages must be paid,
That sidewalks must be cleared
Of dust or falling snow,
Though we ourselves
Are growing cold.
So it is we dwindle.