That scent which rises up into my nostrils  
From the soil:

Iron, sand, leaf litter, first memories;
Black gumbo soil rich with organic decay

The scent that invades my nostrils
From the heavy rains:

Pine, pecan orchards, river, lake, fishy-ocean salt;
Awash in the field of drying grasses

It is an unwanted scent entering my nostrils
From the lack of a dusting cloth:

Aged, layered, rancid, oily, brittle pages, decay;
Things coming to their end.

My heart is ashes
Now, the light winds start to blow
Bit by bit I go

Pink snow falling soft
A stroll in cherry blossoms
My soul rejoices

Into mellow fields, all manner of beings go.
The bird to gather bug or seed,
The workers with their hoes;
And, maidens who gather stands of wheat
In dresses that are blown.

Some days sitting with my pad & pen,
I am feeling sad and blue.
But, then I remember the number two.
I realize that I am no fool.

I simply add to the end the number 2,
Then I am happy because it's so cool
To go on rhyming with this little tool.
And I can smile in the end,

With the number two as my friend.

It's hard to imagine a world without you in it.
The sun still rises.  The day is still filled with seconds, minutes.

Should I not have reprieve rather than be sentenced to grieve?
Why don't I have to tell myself to breathe?

The sun still rises.  I still **** breath.  And, grieve.
There is nothing left but this chiseled granite.

I wish that it were I there decomposing in it, death sublime.
Or perhaps we both could lie there, intertwined

Forever;
Together
Enshrined.

When in life you reach dead ends
Listen carefully to me, friend,

Stop to enjoy the view
Because in life we have too few.

But, here's the message that I send,
Simply turn around and start again.

The journey need not end.
To start again, turn around my friend.