In this its second summer, the apricot tree is making great progress. One thing I love about it is that it does not need to leave its place to check on mine. Call it patience, call it wisdom, or a simple twist of fate, it knows I will come and reveal all. Hand on wood, leaf on face, the shady space still grows. And I suppose that makes me human this time around — not bad, or good, or should, or young, or old, but a trace of light, yes, and green, and gold.
Categories: New Poems & Pieces