My first real green recollection of
Spring was toddling across
fresh-cut grass, a bee was buzzing
round bright yellow peonies,
wavering in a breeze
in the may sun.


I’m a young boy, fishing
with father, middle May,
on muddy-brown river bank,
gray-blue catfish are thrashing,
mouths agape, silvery dragonflies
dart amongst cattails, gleaming
rust-colored worms squirm
in a can, I gaze, as dad,
impales one on a hook.


Five miles I walked that May,
all of nineteen, to an Army recruiter
disgusted with life, wild-eyed,
red-faced angry, wanting more.
An orange Robin in a tree
greeted me, returning home,
mom, pale-rose blushed, knew
where I had been.


I see it, a fresh-cut lawn, roses pining,
May, bowing to June, my brow
deeply furrowed, liver spots on backs
of my hands, sipping ice-tea,
counting syllables on fingers,
coaxing my muse to give an
old man, a poetic break.

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