Sitting by a Dead Tree on a Dead Wooden Bench

Once alone on a wooden bench, bundled slightly in a mid-autumn jacket;

Sober winter air scratches roughly across the surface of fragile pale hands.

A solemn mind silently screams for the comfort of now nearly forgotten warmth.

A half hour on the beach of the South Coasts of Oz, my only desire.

A dingy gloom of dying yellow grass is only barely overcome

by a friendly patch of Noble Blue and gentle light pushing through the crowded

sky of gray.  A happy smile clears all the gloom from the death.....

Warm at Last.

(written circa 2002)