He wrote a simple poem, the kind best read alone;
no pretences, or awkward dictionary interruptions.
But, one line went around in an intriguing way.
...
Ghost Of A Blue World
I dreamed I was flying
...
I dream I am walking on a high swaying bridge.
It is made of old wood, like sun bleached barn siding,
more visible in evening light with splintered edges
forming deep shadows of grey and blue.
...
In this green forest, there is a sweet dampness;
blossoms dropping jewels of spent raindrops.
On this path, soft with cushion of moss and fallen leaves,
my world whispers passion with the voice of a lover.
...
Somewhere, in the damp mold
and earthen rot of a Georgia landfill,
all the old pages of her calendars
are steadily feeding worms.
...
Cherokee poets named this place Meadow.
People wonder why. It is not a flat garden,
but a curved valley of green and waters.
See how the Blue Ridge surrounds.
...
We called it Hornet Island.
Everyone knew the danger
of bees.
You and I, the brave ones,
...
You see me turn in front of the long mirror,
adjust my skirt, frown at the reflection and sigh.
Knowing I never take compliments for honest truth,
you offer anyway. You tell me I am beautiful.
...
Fifty years ago, my sister and I raced across a long, high porch,
jumped off the end to fly across daffodils and old barking dogs.
That was before my sister fell.
...
Some days, all we can do to see a wider world
is lie quietly in the sun, faces curved to sky,
watching leaves drop color and die, as clouds
paint a bleached collage of our other places.
...