Maxfield Parish skies
shine alive
in bright light
while cerulean
and faded hues
play out against
a mediocre sky
of pale blue.

I look down
to see the dirt,
so dark, mud
and washed
out tan on this steel shovel,
my sharpened spade.

Hacking away
through tears at
yellowed living roots,
I see years gone by,
verdant and alive –
so much time
tends to fly.

How’d we get this way,
tattered and gray?
Eighteen doesn’t seems that far away.


this waiting,
this anticipating.
We are so small,
especially when we had it all.

We are sunflowers,
losing power,
fading at the call
of the incoming Fall.