If while our lives motor along,
we could wonder about what might be real,
if we might recall the vision,
we recalled when wanting to wander,
would we wish upon a clever clarity.
We wanted this, said to ourselves,
while the skies blurred our memory,
always positioning ourselves
to carry on, to carry on,
we always do want to remember when.
There in this room where the papers lied,
he would smoke his pipe,
on the floor nearby is where I might lay,
matchbox cars, and wild romance,
in the eyes of a ten year old boy.
There in the autumn breeze,
clouds create a cacophony of chaos,
delightful to the eyes,
of a childhood filled with wonder,
the questions sweep across a gilded sky.
Curious our lives recognize time,
the loss of a muscle joint twist,
a groan, a shudder when night lights
suggest we need again to understand,
the hours ahead will always be the same.
Where the body remains a vessel,
the heart continues to allow fantasy,
the emotional plea of desire
became my demand in a child’s eye.
Oh to please the wanderer’s sunset.