The flower

found by this wind

in an hour

when I can begin

to shake the dirt off of time.

For the past and my soul

no longer rhyme

unless there is a deeper well

from which to draw.

The well of love, the child’s eyes

when my mother and father smiled

looking at their sons

as they splashed in the sea.

For we were there,

and in this hour I still am

with them

as the sunlight holds my stare

in what was and will be

in the skies of heaven.

This, more than anything,

is my poet’s dream.

To be with them

now and always

as the flowers turn

to eternal spring.