tho was done by no fault of me,
I was begun in the West,
turned loose from there to wander
where e’er He directed,
and for all ‘s come since then,
will know my rest in the East
Gossamer
whence they come
mine tender thoughts?
adrift a gossamer breeze
of heaven’s hand,
or, perchance a summer moon?
what pokes and prods
relentless stirs
arouse me turn a loon?
me thinks tis them
come sure of mindless pen
danced of parchment Swoon
Fading
Time, the Great Dwindler,
is not lazy,
never tires,
sustains its pernicious assault
against the aging man.
Graying
day ebbs
and shadows gray
whilst the road shortens
beneath one less Moon