A Poem Is A Cup Of Words

I Still Have Everything You Gave Me It Is Dusty On The Edges. It Is Slightly Rotten. I Guard It Without Thinking. I Focus On It Once A Year When I Shake It Out In The Wind. I Do Not Ache. I Would Not Trade.

I'm Writing Mostly To Thank You For Living You Eighty Years And To Tell You I Love You And Think Of You Often.

If Someday, In A Morning, You See You, In A Mirror Or The Dent Of A Spoon, And Wonder Where Is My Soul And Where Has It Gone, Remember This: Catch The Gaze Of A Woman On The Metro, Subway, Tram. Look At A Man. Seek And You Will Find You In The Silvered Space, A Flash Between Souls.

Why Are We So Monumentally Slow?

Because Sometimes I Live In A Hurricane Of Words And Not One Of Them Can Save Me.