On the Fence

sitting-on-the-fence

To be, or even not to be,

That is not the question;

But what to do with every day,

With all in my possession.

It isn’t where I land that counts,

But how I make each stride;

It’s less what I accumulate

Than what I’m like inside.

 

 

 

Out of Place

cosmos angel

 

Ghost of Summer Past parades

on incongruous stage, rays

reflecting a sunshine lost

in folds, memory’s purse set

aside for special purchase;

it dances, floats, levitates,

takes a bow as warmer days

fall, moaning, into the crypt.