And old is the dust that flows
Through city veins
The stampede of time like footfalls on concrete line the furrowed brow of a 45 year old man in profile in the fading light of day

Under the shimmering sun,
fingers intertwined,
We looked at kids with water guns,
running in the blind.

dancing in endless laughter,
Our eyes were drowned;
Yet I can’t  see the color
that paints you around.

Alas, I found myself in bed
mourning for the hands;
The ones that were in my head
turned into the sands.

In dusk-lit fields where shadows lean,
The sunflowers bow, a sullen scene
Their golden heads in somber trance,
Charmed by the storm’s relentless dance.

They wear the rain like cloaks of night,
A lover’s touch both fierce and slight.
They ache beneath the tempest’s breath,
Bound to a beauty carved by death.

Roots entangled, darkly tied,
They crave the storm yet long to hide.
Bending close yet standing tall,
Bruised by the rain but enthralled by the fall.

When morning breaks, they tilt toward dawn,
But hold the night in petals drawn.
They shine by scars no sun can see
A love that’s forged in agony.

At lunch I bought a pear,
its shape: a quiet joke.
I cut it clean and slowly,
the blade, the slice, the poke.

It tasted like a breather,
not sweet, just real and right.
Like silence in the stairwell
or breezes late at night.

The afternoon unknotted,
each task a gentler climb.
I fed the cat. I folded shirts.
You’re not here. I’m fine.