Poem 2

Today is borrowed time,

and I long for things I do not know;

tattered buckskins and hollow trunks,

and,

briefly, 

the press on the nape of my neck from tender fingers. 

Once, a mouse flattened on the slates

of the porch, teased me. 

Maybe; 

I wasn’t all there and I couldn’t reach the window. 

That pond in the yard has no reflection and ripples soothe 

its worn demeanor;

nor is there, in the wind, 

a lullaby of my ideations. 

I must admit, in low tones, I wish that there was. 

braided straws sow truths I do not believe. 

Bushy eyes decipher mine, and I realize that I am the fool.  

the tail halts 

And a small body scurries 

Off my doorstep.