Just passing through

An old dress on the line

Fills with wind

Balancing the lawn

A child empties his shoe

Into the summer wind

Run and rake leaves

Just passing through

Old pets

A white kitten rolls

In dust, My Grandfather

Remembers how a tiger snatched

His pomeranian in a world, he lost.

I think of revelations,

Barefoot, in the sun.

Slightly out of tune

In the cool of the morning

Open a bottle of last winter

The drone of traffic

Icy, black trees sway like the sea

Far from earth, a feral season

Dead winter grass

Clutching her winter fan

Dragging my knees

A sultry morning survives

As an empty shell

Stream boat

We played the part like ancient sea gods thundering and hooting while the boats crashed. We laughed and cheered urging the boats on, throwing in monsters and divine smite. Now and then we were the cyclopes hurling boulders as Sinbad fled our island.

Little paper men, our tortured creations struggled on their boats. They were crudely made and wouldn’t survive the water but that’s all they were made for. Irritated fish would take a few peck to our delight, and small whirlpools  doomed the sailors who got far.

I wonder if any survivors made it to calmer waters, green ponds and muddy mangrove inlets. It would have been a long journey past much larger fish who liked to ply the surface of the river as if they really thought they were sea monsters, past birds bathing and swooping down in hunger and in the company of the snails who liked to hitch a ride on everything they came by.

By some mossy green pebbles the paper men might have melted with their paper boats ending on a well deserved journey to Valhalla.