Thoughts on a calendar

Dates 

hanging on the wall, 

shout loud;

sometimes they whisper,

looming in the near distance,

On glossy paper, 

days and dates, shout

in black, the Sundays

in red, as if to signify

something important;

also tangible.

Tangibly important, 

the Sunday of the future!

Dates,

hanging…

looming… 

falling 

off the edge

of time

Is there a void somewhere,

filling with numbers?

one, two, three,

thirteen, twenty three,

thirty, thirty one.

A procession,

in black and red,

falling 

off the edge

of

time.

Nostalgia

Oh! Remembrance 

Sweet nostalgia!

You are lost in time, like

a memory that lives

in folded pages of

old musty books.

You are like summer rain

from days gone by;

with shushing music

in its sway

And you pour forth

in a mellow shower 

smelling 

of dried roses that

lay hidden in a journal

dated 2003…