My Father

My father says
he's getting old
And so he is,
and so am I.
Here, just behind;
passing through
that same space and time.
My hand, no longer anchored
in the pocket of your jeans -
Yet we still
face the one direction,
and move the only speed.

Night Sets

Night sets

and I imagine

it is death.

I pretend that I am ready,

I practice letting go.

Day breaks

and finds me blinking.

Not within a new day

but as a new being.

Memories and dreams

mingle like past lives

and I wonder

About the new parts of myself

Yet to be discovered.

Too Brief, Too Varied

Sometimes
I do things one way
and sometimes
another.

In this way
I can be
quite frustrating.

Is a steadfast refusal
of the usual,
the opposite of stubbornness
or its equal?

Put simply,
life is too brief
and too varied

To always behave
a certain way.