Weathered and worked
Lied to and jerked
His stoicism waning
His request for help blaming.
Lived a long time,
Carried the vine.
Provided with spare,
But, lost all his hair.
Hardheaded the soil;
Sentimental the foil.
Left to his own
All his seed sown.
A loose fog wafts over the peninsula,
Throwing shadows on eyes.
An aged family struggles,
Unfamiliar to troubles.
A brother lost to addiction,
The mother runs away…
Safe, but for the day.
The father reaches out; yet denies.
Lost brother tells many, many lies.
The visibility shrouded, palled,
A gossamer curtain, stalled.
The self distanced sister sends,
Through too delicate of friends
A diaphanous olive branch;
Come visit my glorious ranch.
Strong opaque winds fulminate.
Survival expenses earned too late,
First born treads alone,
No help to his own.
Do there exist many worlds, or is there but a single world? This is one of the
most noble and exalted questions in the study of Nature.
– Albertus Magnus, thirteenth century
As I gaze on the wood; westerly lit
By a March sun, setting in a clearing sky
Reflections turn to those at their winter’s end
A friend’s father, a friend’s mother, mine own:
And all others: my friends and mine own…
The wood wavers less as the winds subside
Their shadows lengthen and the streams dry
Their shadows fade as the sun continues to glide
Somewhere between dark and light spirits fly
Gray now; decayed, obscured by phantom clouds
Brilliant, beautiful light resounds fleeting, recondite.
Morning beautiful, mourning still the rite.
–Robert Pennington Price