Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Mushroom Time

mushroom time!
that ritual of spring
and kill-less hunt

an art taught by my father,
he of sharp eyes
and large hands

he had a big stride
yet covered less ground
while I raced
all snap, crackle pop

I searched the more trees.
he filled the larger bag,
while I’d clamber and trip,
and glance to the quiet
that was him.

knowing my stubborn
he never reproved.
just shrugged,
and smiled,
and picked.

his life,
has been a mushroom hunt
all purpose and patience.
while mine,
has remained
all snap crackle pop.

Dad has a file,
bonds, policies and pensions
and still counts his nickels.
Mr. careful and precise.

my file,
is filled with dreams.
wisps of smoke and ash
from trails blaze
and nickels thrown to broken wells

but it also holds loves and laughter
and kisses snatched
in moonlite madness

I’m the drink you have
five minutes after last call.
Dad’s the nap you catch
on Saturday afternoon

Dad’s the moon,
you can set your watch by,
set your sails to.

I’m the comet
you never saw coming,
and couldn’t grab leaving.

I wish he had been a little more me,
and I a little more him.
but we’ve learned tolerance.

his bag will always be bigger,
but my hunt more the rush.
I’ll eat of his extras
while he laughs to my stories

It’s all good,
butter and salt