on a gentle breeze
fluffy dandelion seeds
did saunter around

Like we are  traveling
by rail
through bucolic scenes of villages
hamlets and vineyards

with the sun bright-eyed
and fresh
in a sky that's marbled
and blue

it's the concerto
we hear when we
close our eyes
plug our ears

and write the
music
to the soundtrack
of our lives

Whit Howland © 2020

In the lull
Of our constricted voice

In the hushing
Of our sullen realm

In the finite
Of our broken hinterlands

A watermark
No, rather

A barrow
A grave

Without inscription
Only handprints

In memoriam
Of the receding surf

Never heard
Never reached