Thursday, November 11, 2010

November 10

While walking home from a class I stopped to talk.

With Henry.

Henry takes leaves. And puts them away. Safely, against future need.

It seems. With his wheelbarrow.

Henry seems. A good man.

Henry takes.

Leaves.

But I got these. First.

Sorry, Henry. I say sorry. To you. But.

First. To first things first. And.

These are now out of reach. Yours.

In my mind. Mine.

In the quiet dark.

Against future need.

Mine. And. You yours theirs ours. Too.

You have enough. For now, for your needs.

In your wheelbarrow.

And I.

Have these.

Fair.

Fair deal, Henry.

.

Posted via email from Dave's posterous

2 comments :

  1. This is a tremendous poem. Tremendous.

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  2. Geez. I was just out playing with my $35 toy camera again and got carried away.

    Henry is a bony old guy who's always on the "greenway" tussling with the shrubbery for something to do.

    He just happened to ask what the flying fork I was up to, and there you are.

    So anyway, thanks.

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