Marking the day by the piling snow.
Breakfast dusted the grass and speckled sidewalks.
Lunch soup, and a blanketed picnic table.
By tea time, pillows on lawn chairs.
Night baffled and warm, a world asleep.
You have been in a depressed phase.
That isn’t necessarily anything to worry about.
Everyone goes through a few blue periods.
You need to feel whatever you’re feeling
and work your way through negative emotions.
(a found poem)
The plan was never to do this.
But somewhere in this life’s Middle Ages,
plans faded and were difficult to follow.
Comfortable in what we had made,
frightened to turn a new blank page.
that final meal on a Thursday night,
they went separate ways, spreading The Word.
One committed suicide. The others all seem
to have died violently: clubs, fire, crucifixion.
Fisherman who left the sea behind forever.
Martyrs breaking bread alone in distant places.
Like the environment where the grapes grow,
we each have soil, topography, and climate
in which we grew that imparts characteristics.
Like wine, we age, growing richer until
we don’t. A dusty bottle cellared forever.
read more about terroir