Category: Poetry

it’s unfortunate

the hardest person to know

is often yourself

In just a few months

When winter’s cold approaches

We’ll long for these days

forty-nine years old

for too many memories

searching through the fog

My America

Beautiful despite its flaws

Sea to shining sea

real life’s not defined

by the highest and lowest

but points in between

a decision made now

will inevitably shape

all that come after

at forty-seven

how much more the drab of fall

than the green of spring

small droplets of rain

pouring down in great numbers

bring the mighty flood

thirty years later

if only the falling snow

still meant a snow day

our lamentations

about things we can’t control

will never change them