How long?

That gypsy knows to wipe away

the water from her eyes

and push aside emotion

that caused it so to rise.

And for a time, just a time,

she watches how it moves

not quick and speedy like a fox

but slowly like a snail.

She felt the chill of time

run up and down her spine

and thought perhaps a second

or a minute at the most.

But human time deceptive

and so she thought a day,

perhaps a week, a month,

or a year at the most.   

It matters not, you know,

because gypsies know to push

and push and push again

until emotion disappears.

But too they grow weak and frail

with no strength to make emotion move

and of the tears that pool in eyes

they find their way somehow

into the deep and hidden

there to lie and contemplate

how long, really, really,

is that thing called “time”.

The trees

Oh, the trees; how tall they grow

in search for the will of soul

and as they branch out this way/that

love becomes quite useless, flat.

And in that line of love gone bad

one can see how mournful, sad

they stand amidst the chores of life

and watch the pass of gifted time.

Yet still they grow good flowers, fruit,

and nest the birds if it will suit

the movement of all spirits free

that live on their periphery.

The trees are looking up, up, up

yet still there’s all that other “stuff”

that distracts and causes love to slide

far off, far off, towards the side.

I wished them joy and freedom too

as I released a branch or two

because it sometimes seems to me

less is more when love must be.

And so of love be sure to know

it is indeed the will of soul

lest like those most unruly trees

we take up space quite uselessly.