The time has passed
in which the twig could bend;
awaken uplifted to a bright-eyed sun;
lay claim to its full legacy
with the comfort of nature's backing
and, at day's end,
caressed by tender winds,
frolic in a moonlit garden of blossoms.

I have heard it said:
if only I knew then what I know now,
how different I would have been.

Yet, I often think:
if only I had not been afraid
to partake of the things which I did know then,
how different I would now be.

For from a distance,
desire can breed obsession,
weakness can encourage excessiveness,
and regret can induce passivity.

I have read:
"Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind."

Yes, the twig is now brittle,
but I will no longer bemoan this state.
Instead, I will gain inspiration
from its determined posture.

For no distance is so great that
homage cannot be borne from desire,
nor strength from weakness,
nor action from regret.

And, even in the worst of times,
the Muses will appear,
the senses will rejuvenate
and the heart will beat heavily.

He stepped haltingly over stones and debris
while descending the hill that abutted the tracks.
The steel rails seemed to vanish into the earth
just a short distance beyond where he stood.

The ruins of a station arched high into the pulsing sun;
casting uneven patterns of light upon its dark interiors.
While crossing the threshold of a large stately room,
he thought he heard a whistle blowing.

Once adorned but now decayed walls enveloped his thoughts
as tall weeds tapped gently against a cracked window.
He rested in front of his reflection in the dusty pane;
weary from the journey and warm from the sun.

Gazing intently into the face before him,
he saw the changes that had taken place.
His hands began to tremble and his breath began to seize
as he recalled the promise of his youth.

He awoke from several hours of restless sleep
on a long wooden bench in the waiting room.
While confessing the obsessions that possessed him,
he realized that a destination had to be chosen.

His eyes became fixed on the remains of a wine bottle;
its leftover bounty having long been dried by time.
The sharp jagged edges reminded him of church steeples
as he tightly cupped its base in his hands.

Rumbling sounds had become ever louder;
so he returned outside by the tracks.
Smiling broadly, he plunged aboard
before the darkness surrounded him again.

Imagine;
behold a glorious luminescence;
a radiance without equal;
an opulence of which still Eros
could have only dreamt.

Coalesce;
be encased in a provocative warmth
of indefinable bearing and scope;
beseeching the sacred
while disavowing the profane.

Awaken;
greet the day
through a dichotomous portal
with burden pulling one way
and aspiration drawing another.

Strive;
endeavor to find consequence
in a world whose noisy hands
(some set in "smiley" faces)
steer us toward the precipice
while we grasp forever but for an instant.

This morning the rains fell upon the city;
heightening the contemplative mood
within which I found myself.

It began as a cacophonous downpour,
followed by a brief but measured rest.
Upon resuming, the rains alighted gently and rhythmically,
as if relief had come from the initial burst
and contentment from the pause.

I longed to be in the presence of that revered trio
whose trumpeter's sounds still echo within me.
Yes, though my convictions have grown dubious with time,
an impassioned but faithful rendition
is something to embrace on such a day.

Having warded off a material challenge
from late afternoon's chaotic fusion of asphalt and steel,
the melodies continued well into the night.

The rains, bond between past and future,
temporal and eternal, are exalted
for allowing respite from the mundane and disconcerting,
and bringing us closer to the ground of our being.