Haste, Yet Not Wasted

Oh! My wild cherry blossom,

In your haste, you’re doomed to fail

By booming so far out of season.

You’ll bear no fruit for man or bird.

Did you not know it’s winter now?

It’s nearly Christmas! That’s absurd!

But never fear, my flowery friend,

Your wild haste is far from wasted

For in this frigid winter place

You’ve brought a smile to this grim face.

A Poet’s Lament

After running in place

for what seems like an age,

can’t I just lessen the pace

and scribble a word on this page?

Why must there always be work,

some urgently pressing demand,

a duty too vital to shirk

requiring my guiding hand?

Surely I will find some way

to invite my pen out to play

even if ending the day

I struggle for something to say!

In fact, it seems I’ve found time

to doodle this trivial rhyme.

Toward a Meeting of the Heart

Must is always be
thus? A sorrowful event,
this slow decline of aging?
Or, can we make time
in our crazy, busy, lives;
a pause to sit, be,
loving, in reminiscence
together, while time remains?

Or must we, waiting,
face that harsh regret, wishing
another path was chosen?

Be undeterred
by ancient patterns, remain
steadfast, unswayed
by current, daily pressures;
make the time, for whom we love.