Come with me, dear friend, come,
I shall take you in the midst of nature,
There where the cuckoo sings aloud.

We will write a salute on the winds,
I have seen evening play with morning,
How the day plays with the evening.

For who is this, in whose name,
Oh songbird your melodious salute,
Tell us what is your secret of happiness.

The water forgets where to flow,
Sunlight touches arms of the trees,
These innocent faces & angelic names.

The shadows play with the trees,
Simply beckon us they do to come,
These jump down on the forest floor.

Come, follow me to the forest, dear,
Let's enjoy calm sounds of wilderness,
Here where the cuckoo sings carefree.

coats of dust & pollen settle
on an unoccupied desk;
clumps of rust sprout
on faded typewriter keys.

marmalade pages with
elaborate strokes & scribbles
shrivel like mango slices
suffocating in tropical heat.

a dozen lolling envelopes
with awe inciting addresses
from San Francisco to Shanghai
each wither like aging flowers.

the room once gleaming in
luminescence now hoards darkness.
brandeis blue curtains drape
the windows, stifling sunlight.

sober emotions linger
in the thick, musty air;
overripe creativity decays
into the unwashed floorboards.
rhyme, rhythm, & reason
of the mind cease to bloom;
curiosity & inspiration fall dormant
in a chilling, thoughtless winter.

the mind of a former poet
is an unkept garden;
an Eden of ideas abandoned
in favor of myopic trivialities.

though unattended, the
garden is never barren;
cultivate your imagination &
you will always harvest beauty.

**it’s never too late to pick up your pen;
water your mind & your garden will grow!