If we judge the depth of a poem only by the number of words or lines it contains, we will surely do the same when we read a woman, child, or man; such a waste it is, when we hurry to the end.
A lacy maple, now orange, red, and yellow, is dropping leaves.
Tiny birds arrive. Weightless. Wait. More leaves fall.
Brushstrokes. Worn out shoes. A pilgrim’s smile.
And the distance to the earth below is a mile in this poem.
Categories: New Poems & Pieces