One day when I was a child
My favorite pear tree fell
I found it strange to know it’s fruit
When I’d only seen it bloom

Split in half by the weight of ice
Right down the middle
A crack of thunder as it went
It was killed by the rain and cold

I used to rest in it’s shadow
Infertile but gracious to me
As the blooms floated down
Like flurrying springtime snow

Strong seeming and lovely smelling
A father in spirit and in truth
Winter killed what spring made beautiful
It held no children but me

When I was kid,
I’d look up at the sky and wave
At the airplanes passing by,
I’d wave down from an airplane
Hung up high,
I’d wave and think myself seen.
I remember being seven years old and
The hot air balloon operator said
To keep all limbs inside the vehicle
And my parents kept nudging me to the middle–
Safe and nested.
But I didn’t stay there for long, no
I pushed out to the edge, on tiptoes to
Look down at the great big
Everything.
Only half the thrill is fear of falling.
The rest is how it feels to float.

For us to go out scrumping
As often as might be.
We would reconnoiter every day
To find an apple tree.

Whenever someone found one
Then all would try to see
How quickly could they climb up there
Into that apple tree.

Now, in my dotage, I believe
Our children should be free
To stretch their bodies and their minds,
To climb the apple tree.

Do you ever wish,
you could redo it
all
over
again?

Go back to when
there were no problems,
or at least
no real problems.

A time I can’t even remember anymore
let alone imagine,
No pressure or worries?
back to a flowing, carefree entity…

All the what ifs?
they will always gnaw at me,
would I like to satiate them,
or are they better off starved?

Although, I know
the future doesn’t wait,
so some time or another
it will arrive.

And there will always be
more bad things to happen,
more good things to happen,
more losses than wins

So would I try to escape or
accept what I cannot change
and keep going
anyway?

Returned to where I grew up
the house was there
home was not

smile of an exuberant child,
drowning deep in the sea.
his loquacious nature backthen,
vanished like it never existed.
ove'thinkin is not so mild,
adulthood is the reason he riled.

With a bit of mud upon their peak
a pair of tiny birds ventured into our abode.
I asked my mother, tinged with excitement
“Mother! Why have they graced our home?”

“To craft their dwelling,” replied Mother.

My childhood routine altered—
to oversee the endeavors of those winged beings
and witness the splendid nest they shaped.

Then came the day when Mother uttered,
“The swallows have birthed their offspring.”

Swiftly,
the fledglings matured, mastering the art of flight
and on one uncertain day
they soared away from the nest
yet didn’t return.

My heart echoed the emptiness
of the now-deserted nest.

Mother sighed and shared,
“It appears, the fledglings have departed their nests.”

Weary of my persistent inquiries
regarding the rationale behind their departure
Mother, one day, responded with irritation—
“Their progeny has blossomed into adulthood
they’ve left the haven of the nest
bound to their mates
busy crafting a new abode afar.”

I rushed to Mother
clasped her in a tight embrace, and
with resolute tones, proclaimed,
“Mother! I’ll never make another home!
I’ll stay forever young!”

-०-