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...for you all to meet me. poetry is a window into the soul, yes?





             A rich young earth, sad and sweet,
golden with autumn, color of the elite,
faced with a man of courage, pride,
who watches the ocean, awaiting the tide.
with a soft rustle he finishes his meal,
seeing the starlings, seeming as silk spun to a wheel.
the ocean birds silent and placid,
return the watchers eye, but with acid.

The man of pride watches the gaze,
returning it, as in a haze,
the farmer hides in a flock of wings,
although none wait to hear him sing.
his wife is sleeping on the floor,
as the birds are beating on the door.
how sad the children would be to know,
that the bird of the sky has turned foe.