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in my final breaththe sum of my experience:death poem
cool clean air--shallow breaths rattlethe old man's lungs
in the endno taxes, no people, no conflictpeaceful deconstruction
eight years agoour souls met across the roomand have not let go
on the yellow linein the middle of the roada single black glove
waiting to cutthe growing dandelions--protecting the bees
sitting alonewondering about purposethen you joined me
after this lifetruly becoming onewith the earth
constant rainturns brown to green--indoors it's cold
"It's really comin' down out there, time to time," Tom says. He takes his last gulp of coffee -- unsweetened, black Carrabassett Backdraft blend. "Ready for more coffee?"
rain irrigatesan invisibly populatedwildflower field
silent sky, setting moon,ancient tree, pitted road, homeless man--all tinged with yellow
shadowy woodsnourished by a gentle rain--no escape
life in northern Maine --often more about survivingthan living