Maybe
a scrap of paper
with a name number or address

that slipped down
river
and over the falls

memories
leaving one by one

until there's nothing left
but a hollow wind
blowing

into some glass bottles
perched
on a split rail fence

Mutant darts
or
if you prefer

cricket

the board
was your lawn
green in summer

but seriously

what were we thinking
as we launched
these big metal missiles

with plastic
feathers
on the other ends

and that's the thing

back then
we just did
and that's what made  

all the difference

toothpicks
in a bowl of milk
ready

to be lashed
together
into a raft

to sail down
a river
literary or otherwise

literally

a litany
of possibilities of where
this vessel

could go

January
and there's a blood orange
sunset

glowing in the sky
at five o clock
which means

we are
on the downhill slide
of darkness

heading for days
of warmth
and nights of blinking

fireflies
but honey like I 've said
many times before

never defer happiness
grab it now and not
like a falling star

but a rising one
you catch
and hold onto

by its wispy
glittering
tail

Glops and swirls
of red white
and blue

it does not fly
or billow in the breeze
it hangs

a piece of art

something to start
a conversation
you know

just small talk

with no guarantees
but no fine print
and definitely

no dotted line
to sign on

either

Blue

a mixture green
the color

of grass in summer

with yellow
like the summer sun

and that to me is something
that will never equal

sadness

Solid
the color of steel
that much is clear

but an area
where things get
murky

how could that be
when overtime
it becomes the color

of our hair
when we turn wise
and able

to see the forest
for the trees

gray
the color of days
that are cold and rainy

and there's no
ambiguity
in that

Fake or real
we wonder

the grass
tall and green

with wildflowers
among the blades

a butterfly flits above
the canopy

and farther above the sky
a marbled blue

augmented
by a yellow sun

and we wonder
fake or real

and yet we  dread
the answer

A weeping willow
weeps for me

it wipes the ground
and washes my feet

a canary sings a chirpy
little tune

that might be melancholy
if I let it

but time is too short
it was the last thing

you had to teach
me

Boxes of stuff
dropped
by mechanical pigeons

flitting about
from street to street

eggs and spam
sizzling in a frying pan

the bouncing ball
the Yellow Brick Road

if we follow the plan if we paint
by the numbers

our wedding picture
on the mantle

forever young
as we slide gracefully

into our golden
years