It was a green time:
a rose tree time.
Oregon spring budded children and
washed away five year goals and strategic plans.
The summer was scented with blackberry blossoms,
growing wild and thorny and sour and sweet;
They tasted of timelessness
and the utter lassitude of youth.
How charming it was to be charmed
by the low music of the chimes on the
beams of the back porch;
wine in hand, children on the lawn, blossom floating
like fairy tales on the air.

Time like a fish turning in the river
Quick smooth glint on the green water
Sun bulb flashes, then gone with a flicker.
Youth is a lot like that
Don’t blink or someone will die.

The world seems medicated today
susurrus of tires on wet pavement
while nicotine swirls like mist on graves.
The desert air collides with my memories
sharp and acrid, it ***** the water from my skin
leaving wrinkles and age like a kiss.

The past beckons
its hands are dark and translucently cold.
The blackberries are frozen in mounds of snow.
They won’t grow again.