Here with my feet
time walks on the street
in age as in youth
Unless you lie
in asking why
you have the reply
UNDER A THATCHED ROOF
With leaner hands I clutch December's sky
who held the barefist branch through wind and ice
in younger days. The breath of frost is gone,
my eyes no longer sting. Warmed by the sun,
my heart at last has thawed and finds a peace
it never knew before when storms raged free.
Soft the fingering fronds would teach me how
to seed my winter in a tropic ground
and save my years from being cut in two—
they sway before the wind with ease, they bow—
and yet I can not loose my hold, I blink,
I fear to lie in a hammock and swing.
CONDITIONAL REFLEX
If you had no choice
and there was nothing else to do
the caged intelligence could
If you had no voice
and only silence coming through
the caved subviolence would.