We're walking as the sun begins
Its morning rise behind the trees
Just past our house
Joe and I,
Pond on our right,
Cars to the left,
Hill path curving
Up and out of sight.
Morning smells,
The call of geese,
The morning voice of robins,
Cars rushing,
Loud and soft and loud.

Our morning walk,
The route we know...
And the routine.

We do not talk, he and I,
Alone in our heads,
He with his man,
I with my dog thoughts.

This path is the path of years,
Slower now,
Still connected with a leather leash,
We stroll convinced of nothing
But the need to walk.

This morning's different, though...
Joe stops halfway up the morning hill,
Houses and our house below...behind,
Says, "Tuck, old boy,
Should we change this time?"
Stoops to look into my eyes,
Unsnaps the leash...
To my surprise.

His smile lets me see
That I am free.
"No need, I think," he says.

I turn and look back
Toward our house,
Think of geese now standing
On the dewy grass,
Observe the sunlight
Glisten on the stand of corn
Beside us,
Remember past enticing smells
Along the way....
A rabbit scent invites me
Off the path to stray....

Joe's moving now,
On up our hill.
I am standing on the path,
A little shocked and still.

A younger dog would run,
But habit's set its track;
Our mutual walk lies up ahead,
So, faithful now, I move
To walk beside my Joe,
Content to travel with a friend,
And let the running go....

I barely woke this morning...
Could hardly get up.
My head was fuzzy,
and my nose was running....

I grabbed a hanky.

"What's wrong with you?"
My sweetheart said,
"You feeling janky?"

"Allergies," I paused.
"Nothing too swanky,"
And blew my schnoz
Into a hanky.

We've come to August
And late summer sun;
The apples hang robust;
The garden's almost done.
It's time to go and have some fun,
And now my nose decides to run.
The ragweed and the goldenrod
Fill up the air with pollen pods.

I'm gettin' cranky feeling janky!
I will thank ye to hand me a hanky.

Janky!

Has arrived.
Silent rows stand breathless,
Sweating in the dense heat,
Of August.

Blackbirds do not yet circle;
The sheaves are still too young,
Kernels burgeoning sweetness,
Hiding from the ravagers
Soon to come.

The tall field, burdened in the heat
Broods over tassels brown,
Ripens corn beneath a yellow sun,
Waits the pickers' marauding hands,
The tractor-roar of silage foragers,
And relentless tearing of plows.

As you can see now
We've lost two men to Father Time
They were your friends
As they were mine

They both were outlaws
and they lived life their own way
If we had our choice
They'd still be here today
But, I am not the one
Who took them both away
That's all I've got to say

They were our brothers
And they stood here dressed in black
Close your eyes and they are back
They're in the ether
Waiting there for their return
They'll tell us what they saw
And then we will all learn
That life's a circle
And death is no concern
When they do return....

We are all highwaymen
And we all travel different roads
We all bear witness
Carry loads
We will all pass this way
More than once I'm sure
There will be other times
When we meet at death's door
But as for now, I say
No more than evermore
For we will meet again....

Once there were four of us
And the world was our domain
We've gone away
Come back again
We sailed the seven seas
And rode the highway roads
We flew on starships
And we followed our own code
We met the horsemen
And our souls we did unload
And we'll be back again...

Just when there was nothing more to say,
Just when I figured we were ending,
And rose to put the dishes all away...

You stuck your head inside my door,
Grinned that dumb old grin you've grinned before,
Said, "There's reasons why I've been so long;
Been working on a brand new song,
But skip all that and let's go out to play!"

Just when I was sure that you'd forgotten,
Just when I was making other plans,
Just when I'd called you something rotten...

You dropped a dozen roses In my hands,
Expecting me to forgive you all your crap,
Said, "Come on, Honey, I'm a sap;
Come on baby, please don't slap;
Let's go take another lap!"
And jitterbugged us out without my cap.

Just when I knew you were a *******,
Just when I knew that I'd been played,
Just when I bought an airplane ticket
To take me up and carry me away....

You proffered me a diamond ring;
You took my breath and made me sing,
You promised me another fling;
You set a date and were not late,
And then you heard me say,

"You made me wait, you made me pine,
I can't say now that we'll be fine,
But Lover, make it right this time!
You listen now and listen fine,
Can't stop my pout with vintage wine....
So think a while, and then start humming,
"If my lady's waiting, I'll start running!"
And if you're late from time to time,
You're never gonna hear me whine,
If you let me know just why and when,
And don't leave me wondering again!"

Two Frenchmen,
One newly retired,
One still a few years out,
In high back leather chairs
Beside an empty fire place,
Guinness & coffee & conversation
To bring closure,
And to think how to begin again....

"I'm burned out!"
Mssr. Rivere declares,
"Away with books;
Away with the horn!"
He says, and I can tell,
That he feels worn.

Is this how we come to our ends;
Spent in years and worn of halls,
Chalk and marker memories,
And the clattering of chairs....
Old opening lines, closing remarks,
Grading done and logged,
And now it's out we're turned
To walk upon the parks,
Once quicker steps now trudging
Up and down the eternal stairs?

Memories' mellowed now,
And sometimes failing;
Shall we go sadly sighing,
Or do we go out flailing?

At these crossroads,
Care-worn teachers,
Revert to old philosophy,
To faith, and to our friends...
Ancient lines to lead us
Too soon to be old men....

Must look all ways, we,
Then venture out again
To see what lies beyond
The pasts we leave behind;
Take pause this afternoon
Upon the marge
Of journeys new
We must begin.

Who are these farmers,
And who, these fertile fields,
Verdant under native grass,
That stand un-plowed,
That shake beneath the plow,
That lie now fallow,
That bear the planted seed,
That wear the heavy grain,
That await the Harvest pain?

And who, these Harvesters,
And who, these close-shorn fields,
Desolate in short-cut stubble,
That stand, stiff in silence,
That wear the heavy tracks,
That have endured the harvest,
That yielded up their dead,
That bristle through the falling snow,
That whistle wind-song low?

And who, these merry Farmers,
And who these stubbled fields,
Glistening beneath the melting snow,
That warm beneath the glowing sun,
That host the migrants of the sky,
That tremble the biting plow,
That accept the falling seed,
That wait beneath the welcome rains,
That cycle through the seasons once again?