Currency
Dandelions
blooming in the soccer field
fly up
into the windbreak pines –
30 goldfinches
on Good Friday. Thirty,
I counted them,
not silver coins but weightless
currency
to purchase . . . what?
Winter
breaks without a promissory note,
mockingbird
can’t hold back his chorus.
Tristis
the goldfinch, sad one named
not for color
but for his song. Barter
as I may
there are some things I can’t
repay.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Bill Griffin 4/22/2011
like the photographs very much. Now there is someone familiar looking at that perfect tree.
This Eastern poem upholds both the sadness and the promise of new life and yes it is our place to figure out for what.
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Nancy, thanks for reading and commenting. This is all an exploration for me, but as I’ve discovered after 15 years of hiking with Mike, the journey’s meaning is in the sharing.
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