I’m no wizard. Just a fledgling and an aging poet sometimes inspired by a whimsical inner wizard . . . .
The carnival days of youth
No future but the present.
Joyriding in open-hooded cars
Convertibles of two-toned pastels
with vanilla leather seats
Colors young and soft and innocent
no longer mine.
Now I choose deep, bold colors
colors with saturation of wisdom
But how I long sometimes
for those convertible days
those rapidly shifting ways of being.
I’m rock stillness now
I dress in moss-feathered fur coats
and wear lichen-splattered jewels.
The archival grace of aging.