Monday, July 09, 2012


that sky beyond the clouds,
where a frail bird can fly,
over unturned, tortured soil,
over older hearts,
in a park,
pickling in the youthful sun,
but we can't stay here for long,
you'll be moving on,
and I'll be gone,
fallen into the fractures,
that shake the fault lines of time,
but what if it could be different?
something original and new,
you could stand at a distance,
I might connect and hit it to you,
or even past the difference between what I say,
and what I mean,
over a sea of wild and wide open eyes,
into the mezzanine. 


Old Ollie said...

Sweet one - Gord Downie-ish

Fisheye Lens said...

Another jack out of the park, HP! The seams of history and the seams of baseballs intersect ...