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04/03/09 - (3)
Tree-House Visions
These days, as I rapidly approach sixty-eight, All it takes to make tears well up, involuntarily, From ducts rooted in the core of remembering's imagination,
Is a vision of the fleeting seasons of tree-house youth I shared with my gypsy-hippy flower-child wife, Whose unbridled spontaneity I failed to appreciate completely,
A rare and exotic agency, for a boy like me, Who couldn't ever quite surrender to her untamed instincts, For having grown up amidst the strictures of privilege.
If only we'd known what green and gold magic we had, then, The romantic grandeur our souls had just barely kindled, And not squandered all our callow potential,
Simply because its abundance blinded me, us, with jadedness, I might yet, instead of being a forlorn old man, Be married, two weeks from my birthday,
To that gypsy-hippie flower-child, who went her own lonely way, Still living, with her, in our tree-house purlieus, In any small town called Anywhere, in the state of Forever.
04/03/09 - (3)
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