all the traditions of the past
the lace and the rose petals
are, if not for you, then who
could glean a remembrance of
times we never knew...or did,
in the low-hung afternoon light

I'll tell you what you want to hear
after all these years of suffering
remuneration may be all that's left
the rest is a gentle swale with
a placidly warm view, of fields
and streams by forests' verdant trees

beyond, lies the arid mind of man
with all the dry ambition and wit
usurping the sting from all kind
to be distributed as he sees it.
doled, maybe not with equanimity but
only deservedly so, pointedly given

can righteous thirst ever be slaked
so the fibers of being, watered and
pliable, can grow like the trunks
strong and living, not like limed
accretion, calcified hard as stone.
stone breaks and out becomes alive

the theologian and the philosopher
dabble in cosmic possibilities obscure
while mothers suckle and rain falls
onto muddied shoes in loamed fields
ambulatory, life’s migration is afoot
insatiated, to walk a little further

© agoodguy2have 2011-01-04