We sit down, we go to work, the work turns out to be play. We stand up, we go out, we face the day.
Tell Me, Grandfather
Somewhere, long ago, a village, a woman, a broom.
Here, now, this road, this hunger, this sweet-ripe orange.
But . . . is there no dragon?
Yes, there is, if you wish.
And a bottomless well.
Does the dragon fall into the well?
He does. And he is falling still.
Poor lonely soul.
Oh, Grandfather! Will anyone save him?
Yes. You will. With this sweet-ripe orange.
And with a village, a woman, and a broom.
Categories: New Poems & Pieces